Ripples In Still Water
by PastryFudger
Summary: If the shoes fit, walk a mile in them. But what happens when Booker DeWitt is given a second chance at life as Harry James Potter? Do you still walk when the shoes aren't the right size?
1. Chapter 1

The night was a warm one, and the room was humid. James tugged at his cloak collar awkwardly, trying to look anywhere but at the scene happening right next to him. He ignored the numbing of his hand as Lily screamed and wailed as the baby was, well, being born.

Each screech sounded around the room and hit him like an Unforgivable, and he cursed himself for not being able to ease her pain, for not having the courage to watch his child be born.

Some Gryffindor he was.

After what seemed like an eternity, Lily, heaving and panting, stopped screaming, and a young baby boy was held carefully in her arms.

She seemed almost dull, lifeless, as if it took every ounce of magic in her to produce this child, and perhaps it did.

But James took one look at the child, at his wife, and made a silent promise to himself that he would do absolutely anything if it kept them safe.

* * *

Booker could remember something dark, something wet, several sets of hands pushed against his neck, nails digging into his skin and the breath escaping his lungs as his vision faded.

He died. He was sure of it.

But here he was, waking up again, in the arms of a strange, sickly woman, who cooed over him in such a familiar way that he couldn't help but cry.

He had not had a mother for years now. It felt nice.

* * *

Lily did not recover from her sickly disposition after giving birth, and had difficulty doing a great many things.

James tried his best not to be bitter about it, but the truth was that their child was so powerful that Lily, having to provide the most basic of magical power to the child, was drained.

The medi-witches were somber as they gave the news that she might not recover, but Lily just smiled.

"I'm glad I was able to have a child at all, it doesn't really matter to me," she said, a bright smile on her face, standing out against her pale skin.

James hid his anger and smiled for her.

* * *

They named the boy Harry James.

Lily had insisted on the middle name. She had told him that they both made the child. He deserved more credit, apparently.

He told her she was too modest as he kissed her brow, and gently rocked her to sleep with Harry in her arms.

She died overnight.

* * *

Booker was in too far over his head.

There was... magic, apparently.

Not as ridiculous as a city at the bottom of the ocean, he figured, but still. _Magic._

His mother was sickly. Lily, her name was, and though she was gaunt of figure and pale of skin, her hair was a fiery red and her eyes a fierce green.

He hoped he didn't get her eyes. He never liked his face, his features. She looked better with the green.

His father was two-faced. James was happy around Lily, cooing over Booker just like her, all soft brown eyes and fatherly aura.

Then they would be in private, and the man had a downright sour look when around his son.

Being a former Pinkerton and soldier, Booker knew that look well.

He was the cause of the death of a loved one, but the person wasn't petty enough to take it out on him.

Lily wasn't cut out for birth, it would seem. Much like Annabelle had done before with Ana, she died two months after the birth, and the Potter household was stretched silent.

* * *

James came close to killing his son three times before he left the child in Sirius' care almost permanently.

He would wake up in the night, hearing the echoes of Lily in his ears, and remember why she was gone.

He'd grab his wand and glasses, and stop just outside the nursery door to catch his breath.

Then he would open the door just a crack and spot the child.

Harry James.

His son.

Lily had chosen that middle name, because she wanted people to know that this was _his_ son as well, and here he was, one felony away from destroying that last tether to her.

He would close the door and firecall Sirius, Remus, Peter, Molly, whoever was awake, and ask them to babysit the next day.

Now he just sat in his office, staring at the moving photograph of the two of them dancing in the fall leaves, her cheeks rosy and her smile full.

Merlin, how he missed her.

* * *

It was two weeks before Harry's first birthday when Sirius finally gathered the courage to force James out of his office for more than a meal or a trip to the loo.

"You need to be there for your son."

"I can't do it, Sirius," James said, trying his best to tug away from his friend's tight grasp on his wrist.

"Is it because he reminds you of Lily?" Sirius asked with a harsh tone. "If so, you _need_ to move on. This is your _child_."

"I can't do it, Siri, I really can't-"

"Why?!"

"Because he's the reason why she's gone! He drained her of her magic and she withered away like a flower right before my eyes, and all that remains is him. Don't you understand? She's gone! She was the parent here. I don't know what to do without her."

James sank to the floor, overwhelmed with finally letting his feelings out, and sobbed heavily.

Sirius swallowed a lump in his throat.

He didn't know how to solve this, but maybe Remus did, and if so, maybe he could solve this crisis before Harry's first birthday rolled around.

* * *

Remus had no clue how to deal with this sort of situation. Upon telling Sirius, the man did not pout or whine like he normally did. He simply lowered his gaze and crossed his arms.

It made his heart ache, to see his friend so somber, so the werewolf promised he would try to figure something out.

Yet try as he did, James couldn't bring himself to so much as look at the child, and Harry's first birthday was celebrated quietly between Sirius, Remus, and the ever well-behaved Harry.

* * *

October 31st. A Death Eater raid on Diagon Alley pulled Sirius and Remus away from Harry's side for the night.

An hour later, the news that Voldemort had attacked the Potter home came to their ears, and Sirius took off running, a vengeance in his eyes the Remus could not comprehend.

Dumbledore appeared with the news that Harry had survived the assault, with a mere scar to show for it, despite taking a Killing Curse to the face, and was now in a safehouse.

"What of James?" Remus asked, worry eating away at him. Peter had been missing for a week, Sirius had just run off, and he felt like he was losing every lifeline he had.

"I'm afraid he did not survive. He died, I presume, to protect Harry."

The werewolf felt a chill go down his spine. James had... protected his son.

Perhaps all those times he had talked things out with the grieving man had finally gotten to him.

"Can I see Harry?" he asked, some enthusiasm returned.

"Not at this moment, my boy, he's being looked over by medi-witches. Perhaps in the morning when he has rested."

Remus didn't see Harry again for over a decade.

* * *

Booker had awoken to the sound of James bursting into the room, wand at the ready, and he wondered if the man had finally gotten the guts to go through with it and kill him.

He deserved it.

But, instead, James locked the door, and started chanting. Some protective bubble appeared around Booker, and James grimaced at the sound of the front door breaking down.

Someone was coming to attack.

From what Booker could understand, some sort of magical war was going on.

Perhaps this was it.

A strange cloaked figure burst into the room, and a deep voice cackled.

"Here to protect your son, Potter? From what I've heard, you haven't been a father to him for over a year."

James said nothing, but his fist clenched in anger.

"Not that it matters. Both of you will die tonight. _Avada Kedavra!_ "

A green light shot out at James, but he dodged, and it hit the bubble around Booker, shattering it and dispelling the light.

"Not even going to bow like a proper pureblood?" James taunted, though the meaning of his words was lost on Booker. "How disgraceful."

The man sneered, but bowed ever so slightly.

James took the initiative, running forward and grabbing the man by the throat.

The man choked, his hood falling away to reveal a grotesque face, and Booker looked away and covered his ears.

He didn't want to hear the choking... something about it set him on edge.

The ugly man-like thing wrestled with his opponent, kneeing him in the stomach before reaching back for his wand at the same time as James did.

" _Protego_ -"

" _Bombarda Maxima!_ "

A large explosion sounded, and all that remained was ash, and the gross man, triumphant.

He laughed maniacally before finally turning his attention to Booker.

"And now, to finish this up."

He raised his wand.

" _Avada Kedav-_ "

Booker did the first thing he could thing of.

He used a vigor.

He hadn't mean to, but suddenly Devil's Kiss was running hot along the man's body, eating away at his skin and bone in a matter of seconds, and Booker, so intrigued at the ridiculously powerful Devil's Kiss he had produced, did not notice the completed spell hit him square in the face.

Light faded to black, and Dumbledore arrived to the scene with a somber, yet calculating look.

He had much to do.

* * *

 **AN: hey there. i'm pastry.**

 **this is definitely not my first fanfiction, but this is a new account and the first one i'm publishing on it.**

 **i've had this plot bunny running circles in my head for almost two years now, and i'm excited to get it out now.**

 **please enjoy, and feel free to leave a review if you want to.**


	2. Chapter 2

The Dursley household was well known up and down the street for being a little bit strange.

It had all started those years ago when the nephew of Petunia Dursley had arrived and been taken into their loving home. There was something about that boy's arrival that made them all a little rough around the edges.

Petunia looked like she had bitten into a sour lemon when seeing the boy. She would mutter something about 'lily' and 'green eyes' and 'freaks', her eyes bugging out in fear and anger.

Vernon did his best to smile it away, but everyone knew what the vein popping in his neck meant, but they did not want to risk a fight with the man. He was known for his love of barfights back in college, after all.

Dudley did not hide his disdain for the boy, but then again, kids will be kids after all. No one cared what Dudley had to say. All they cared about was the fact that they finally knew who was egging houses in the night.

The nephew in question was an anomaly.

Good grades, a polite and quiet boy, though he, oddly enough, had an American accent. He would have been the most normal of the bunch if it weren't for his accent.

Such a strange family, those Dursleys.

* * *

"And you can stay in there until you learn your lesson!"

Booker uncovered his ears when he was sure Vernon had left the area.

By God, that man could yell.

He wasn't quite sure what he had done this time, and, quite frankly, he didn't care.

Nothing better than pissing off that man.

But the grumbles of hunger were loud, and Booker didn't want to risk the belt again because he was 'too loud'. He had to find some way to get food. It had been quite a few days since he had a full meal and it was starting to take a toll on him.

He wondered what Elizabeth would do.

Probably open up a tear to a banquet and eat to her heart's desire. She like cotton candy, right? She'd probably eat a lot of that.

He grimaced. How he envied her.

The strange threads of time and space were always loosely woven around her.

It was almost like he could see them, he mused, settling down for a lonesome and starving night.

Wait.

He blinked.

He blinked again.

Booker DeWitt, with his own two eyes, could see a tear right next to him.

Could... could he open it? Could he go through it?

Could he escape?

He reached for it, and instead of his fingers falling through the static, he hit something soft, yet solid.

The tear.

Something in his stomach sparked. Hope, perhaps?

He opened it, ever so carefully, like silk curtains, and inside was a sandwich. Simple, ham and lettuce, but still _food_.

It was devoured in minutes, and Booker stared with wonder as the tear closed.

He hadn't had a chance to go through. Would things have been different there?

Perhaps. Perhaps not. It was too late now.

He curled up his childish body and settled down for the night.

* * *

Tears began to pop up in many places as Booker continued living in the Dursleys' cupboard.

When his homework was torn to shreds by his 'cousin' he got it back.

When he needed food, it was available.

When he needed new clothing, it would be there, just the right amount worn to pass for his clothing but with no holes and no stains.

Sometimes they were something major, sometimes for the most simple things, though it seemed like Booker was the only one who could see them.

He could never go through, though.

He had tried many times, but something stopped wasn't sure what. Something cold coiled around his neck and limbs when he tried, and he was forced to turn away for fear of being choked by this strange feeling holding him back.

He stopped trying when he hit eight. He was growing up relatively healthy, he supposed. He had access to food and it annoyed the Dursleys to no end. Vernon wasn't too violent, as it was hard to hide bruises and Booker wasn't known for being clumsy. In fact, the family had left him alone for the most part.

Not that he cared, of course. They could go rot and he still wouldn't.

He had contemplated running away several times, but for some reason never did.

Then, the night before his tenth birthday, he tried to run away.

No sense in not trying, after all.

He made it about ten blocks are was about to turn down an alleyway when an old man in a strange billowing robe decorated in constellations appeared nearby with a pop.

"Now now, not this again Harry," the man said.

'Again?' Booker had run away before? He was sure he would have memory of that.

Something wet dripped from his nose but he couldn't focus on that. He turned a corner in an alleyway only to come face to face with the weird old man.

"I'm sorry about this, my boy. _Obliviate._ "

Alarmed, Booker grabbed the the top of a nearby trash bin in an attempt to defend himself, and just in time, as the spell bounced off the metal and hit the old man, knocking him to the ground.

Ignoring the dazed man, Booker took off into the suburbs.

His mind was in a daze. memories of the man having done that before were breaking through into his mind, and as he pieced things together, he realized that it must have been a spell for memory erasure of some sort.

He wiped at his nose, pausing at a street corner to catch his breath, and glanced at his hand, noting the blood.

His memories were being toyed with. He never quite enjoyed that.

* * *

Booker spent three weeks on the streets, eating food from tears and trash bins and sleeping in trees and parks before the old man came back again, with assistance from a hook-nosed man.

"Harry, my boy, you must return to your family." The old man's eyes twinkled a bit, but his voice was sinister. "It's not safe here for you."

"Not much of a family," Booker bit back. "I'm no safer there. You obviously know how the Dursleys treat me."

The other man paused hearing that, but his wand was still held high.

"Harry-"

"Obliviate!"

Booker threw as much of his vigor, magic, whatever, at the old man, and hit him in the gut, sending him flying.

He stared in wonder at his hands, at how much power he held, and failed to notice a red light hit him in the side of the head.

His last thought was that he really needed to work on being more aware of his surroundings.

* * *

Snape cursed as he casted a floating charm on both Dumbledore and the Potter boy.

Dursley. Dursley. That was not a pureblood name.

He was under the impression that Lily's son was in the care of a light pureblood family, pampered and arrogant.

Regardless, he took Dumbledore back to the castle before heading to this 'Dursley' household to drop off the boy.

He knocked on the front door with more than enough vigor, wanting to get this over with.

"Yes-"

"You-"

Petunia Evans stared at him in horror, and he stared back in much the same way.

Her expression morphed into fury. "You! You and your kind think you can just drop this freak of a boy on our doorstep? He ran away! We don't want him and he doesn't want us!"

"You hardly have a choice in the matter, Tuney," Severus sneered, dropping the boy on the floor. "He's your responsibility. Put up with him."

He left at that, and returned to Hogwarts with a sour expression.

As he brewed a memory potion for Dumbledore, he thought of Lily.

* * *

Booker woke up with a splitting headache in the cupboard again.

He cursed, and swore to himself that he would run away again one day, _successfully._

* * *

"Severus?"

Albus Dumbledore lifted his head ever so slightly from his lush bed in the headmaster's quarters.

"Yes, Headmaster?" The man came in with his robes billowing behind him in far too dramatic of a manner for the old man's taste.

"What happened with Harry?"

"I left him with the Dursleys and put up some more protections in the hope that he doesn't leave again."

"Good, good."

Albus could not remember much of the night. Much of his mind was in a muddle, and a memory potion could only restore so much. He could only hope that Severus remembered to _Obliviate_ the boy before returning him.

* * *

 **AN: hey everyone, pastry here.**

 **second chapter. third on the way. since i draw, i might make a cover image as well, but no guarantee bc im a lazy shit.**

 **sorry these past two chapters have been so short. i want to write longer chapters but can't cram enough into the chapters.** **when the hogwarts days come up, the plot will thicken, as well as the chapters (hopefully).**

 **if you guys ever notice some typos or want something that can be clarified, feel free to let me know, and i will do so, as long as i don't have to reveal any spoilers.**

 **hope you guys have a nice day. feel free to leave a review on your way out (if you'd like to, of course.).**


	3. Chapter 3

**fair warning, i was a bit drunk when writng some of this and im still drink**

 **the next day: thanks for the message, drunk me. i cant even remember what was written when drunk but it might have been written out, i dont even know.**

 **two days later: yeah no it's still in there, just edited from the drunk version.**

* * *

Booker's eleventh birthday (or, well, his 49th birthday if you counted his 'past life') was marked as his next attempt to run away. The day held no significance to him, but the Dursleys absolutely avoided him during holidays and birthdays, so he knew he would have a better chance then.

He was tall and lanky at this age. Many assumed him to be a year or two older than he was, which was fine by him. The older he seemed, the more likely they were to leave him alone. Hopefully, he would pass as some kid on the way to the library, and if no one talked to him, even better! He had no idea how to fake a Brit accent and he wasn't about to try.

"Boy! Get the mail!"

Booker grimaced as the shout broke his train of thought, but stood and got the mail, and was surprised to see that, of all things, there was a letter for him.

A letter for him. In the Dursleys' mail.

He quickly shoved it down his pants before bringing the rest of the mail to the table and quickly going to his cupboard.

It was from a place called 'Hogwarts'. Sounded ridiculous, but familiar, oddly enough.

He paused in opening the letter, relishing in something that was _his, and his alone,_ when suddenly the cupboard door was ripped open and Petunia snatched the letter away.

"I _knew_ it! You've been invited to that freak school just like Lily!" She promptly tore the letter into shreds. "I won't allow it!"

Booker glared at her, but said nothing, silently admonishing himself for thinking he could ever have a moment of privacy in this household. Way to make a fool of himself.

He opened a tear to get it back that night in his locked cupboard. It was a disappointment, to be honest. Hogwarts? School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? It was still vaguely familiar, though he just couldn't pinpoint it. Would he even be able to go? The Dursleys sure as hellfire wouldn't pay for an education, and Booker didn't have a penny to his name, what he knew.

Dismayed, he figured he might as well try to reply. They might be able to direct him somewhere else to get his vigors under control, for all he knew. He'd sneak a letter into the mail when he was working on the garden later on.

* * *

McGonagall was most certainly expecting replies from various first years, but she was not expecting the strange small handwritten letter from Harry Potter.

 _To whomever it may concern,_

 _I'm unable to attend your school as I do not have the funds to pay for the supplies, let alone the tuition. If you could direct me to other schooling options, that would be much appreciated._

 _Regards,_

 _Harry Potter_

Minerva put down her quill in an instant. She wouldn't have the time to solve this strange mystery, as much as she wished she could, for she had to take care of the other muggle children. She promptly hurried to her fireplace, threw in some Floo powder, and called another professor.

"Hello?"

"Yes, Aurora? I have a favor to ask of you..."

* * *

The next day, Booker was let out to do his chores, but was locked in the cupboard for the whole evening, and he could hear quiet worried murmurs from the kitchen the whole night.

No chance to escape that night. With Petunia and Vernon in the kitchen, they would hear him open the cupboard door, not to mention he would have to pick it open. He was lucky to have picked up some of Elizabeth's lockpicking skills, though he had none of the expertise she did.

He woke up in the morning to the sound of Petunia's angry shouting, and did his best to peer at the front door through the slots in the front.

An angry, old-fashioned looking woman stood in the doorway, a large witch's hat atop her head.

"He will not be attending your _freakish school!_ " His aunt sounded like she was practically frothing at the mouth, and Booker counted himself lucky that Vernon had already left for work or it would be even worse.

"I think, ma'am, that you will find he _will_ be attending," the woman said. "His parents paid for his education in full and his trust fund can easily cover the costs of his supplies. The choice is left to him."

"I'll go!" Booker shouted as loud as he could. "I'll go to the school!"

Petunia whimpered and there was a small gasp from the woman at the door.

"You... you would dare..."

Petunia burst into tears, and the woman's steps were light on the carpet as she made her way over.

" _Alohamora._ "

The door unlocked and Booker was faced with a horrified, pitying expression.

The woman offered her hand, and he took it, appreciating her help as he stepped out of his far too small cupboard, only a little wobbly on his feet.

"Professor Aurora Sinistra," she introduced herself, her voice slightly shaky. "I teach Astronomy at Hogwarts."

"Harry Potter," Booker replied. The name never felt natural on his tongue, but there was no point in sounding like a fool. "I don't do much of anything, ma'am, but it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

* * *

Aurora wasn't quite sure what to make of the Potter boy.

He looked nothing like either parent. It had been a strange thing, for all the Potter men to look alike in one way or another; but here he was, a mixture, but definitely not his parents.

He was polite, and had a keen eye, but kept rather quiet.

He was not James, loud and rambunctious, demanding attention with his presence.

He was not Lily either, curious, with eyes full of wonder.

Harry Potter eyed everything with a wary gaze, and Aurora found it such an odd look for a young boy.

She ignored it, though, and led the way to Gringotts.

* * *

"Key, please."

"Huh?"

"Your key, Mr. Potter."

The goblin gave Booker and Ms. Sinistra a disdainful gaze, but the man couldn't bring himself to care why.

"I don't have one. Is there a way to get a new one?"

The creature ground its teeth, pulling out a quill and paper. "Sign here."

Booker found it a little funny to still see quills around. The year was... what, 1990? Pens had been around since the 1880s, this was just ridiculous. Still, he signed, feeling a slight sear in the back of his hand as he scribbled his name. The ink was red, it would seem.

No, now that he thought about it... it was blood. His blood, which was soaking and then disappearing into the paper... parchment. It was parchment. Jesus in a handbasket, this was far too old-fashioned.

 _Magic really is something,_ he thought to himself, watching a key form from seemingly nowhere. He grabbed it quickly, watching the wound on his hand scab over and then heal in a matter of seconds. Very strange.

He and Sinistra quickly went down to the vault, guided by another goblin.

They loaded into a minecart (of all things) and then they were off, passing a very large man throwing up over the side of his own cart.

"Oh goodness that looked like Hagrid," Sinistra said. "I hope he's alright."

Booker did nothing, not enjoying the feeling of the wind against his hair. It reminded him of the skylines, of Columbia. He didn't want to think about that, and bowed his head to his chest, trying to ignore his discomfort.

"Don't like the ride?" Ms. Sinistra asked, placing her hand on his shoulders in an attempt to soothe.

It put him more on edge as he jerked away from her touch, but she got the memo and kept her hands to herself.

The rest of the trip through Gringotts passed in silence.

* * *

Booker soon found himself carrying a large amount of books, a cauldron, and... uh, some other things he didn't care about, all packed in a trunk.

Ms. Sinistra led him to a clothing shop, where he was fitted for a uniform and ignored some snobby looking blond boy.

Then he was being dragged off to what seemed to be a pet shop.

He had no idea what he needed a pet for.

There was a lot of animals, mostly animals you wouldn't expect as a pet. Owls, snakes, amphibians, and reptiles. Modern standards for pets were rather strange.

He wandered down the aisles, barely noting any of the strangely sentient animals, until a black cat meowed at him, with wide blue eyes, its head cocked innocently.

His mind rushed back to Battleship Bay, to Elizabeth asking him to dance with her.

He should have taken her hand.

He should have danced with her.

He should have done so much more for her.

The cat meowed at him again.

He turned away, unable to bear his memories.

* * *

As they finished up shopping, Booker purchased his wand.

He did not ask what was curious about the wand. He didn't care and the shopkeeper was creeping him out.

But what he did know was that he didn't like the wand. It felt weird in his hand, like it wanted him but he wanted nothing to do with it.

Perhaps it had to do with how utterly ridiculous he felt holding a wand.

That was probably it.

* * *

"Thanks for everything, professor," Harry said, giving her a courteous, yet strained smile.

"It was my pleasure, Mr. Potter," Aurora replied. It was well into the afternoon now, and she was helping the young boy get his trunk into his house.

Then she felt it. A strange magical anomaly somewhere in the house.

"Stay here a moment, Harry, I need to check something."

He quirked an eyebrow at her, but let her step into the house with her wand at the ready.

She walked into the sitting room, and saw in the corner a strange... something. She didn't quite know what to make of it.

"Oh that? That's nothing."

She jumped at the young boy's voice, but glanced back at Harry with a curious look. "You know what it is?"

"Not really. They just pop up wherever I go. Never hurt nobody, and you're the first person to see them too."

"Huh..."

She grafted the image of this strange thing into her memory before handing the boy his train ticket and explaining how to get on the train.

Then she quickly left, intent on asking her senior professors for their opinion.

* * *

A train station only accessible through running straight into a brick pillar in a train station.

How the hell was Booker supposed to pull that off without being noticed by other people?

He shook his head, dragging his trunk up the stairs to his new 'room'.

The Dursleys did not even bother to look at him that night, something he was grateful for. He wasn't sure he could put up with them. He slept fitfully, dreaming of Elizabeth; the two of them dancing on the Bay, a collection of father-daughter songs playing the background, and the waves crashing gently onto the shore.

* * *

"This is most strange, Sinistra," Flitwick said, an oddly grave look on his face. "I've never seen anything like this. And he said they just 'pop up' wherever he goes?"

"Yes, Professor Flitwick," Aurora said.

"Interesting..."

She had provided her memory to McGonagall and Flitwick, who she felt were the best for the job. She would have asked Dumbledore to join as well, but he had taken ill lately, it would seem.

"I suppose we will get more of an opportunity to observe these anomalies when young Mr. Potter arrives."

"I should hope so. It is rather strange, though."

"What is, my dear?"

"I felt as though I was near a fireplace when I stood near it."

"It was warm?"

"No. It felt like there was someone, or something, on the other side."

* * *

The remaining days before Booker was set to go to this magical boarding school were just as lonely as they normally would be, though this time he had some reading material. Petunia, in an effort to squeeze some use out of him before he left, upped his chores and spent a lot more time in the master bedroom, alone. Dudley was taking remedial classes and was often not home until evening, out 'playing' with his friends.

It had taken a few minutes, but Vernon had agreed - with some persuasion involving an amount of fire - to drive him to the station and pick him up at the end of the year, as long as Booker did not return during winter break, something they both knew would only happen if the sky fell.

* * *

This was it. The moment of truth.

Booker stood on the train platform, staring at the pillar with a dubious look.

Life was certainly all about risks, and he hardly had anything to lose for running into a brick pillar beyond breaking his nose and making a damn fool of himself.

Fuck it.

He ran straight for it, and came out onto another platform with a blindingly red train awaiting him and numerous other students.

The sounds of children and owls and parents waving goodbye were more than a bit nauseating; Booker wasn't one for crowds, so he quickly shoved through the crowd to get to a compartment, and settled down for the ride.

* * *

When Booker awoke from an unexpected nap on the train, his new compartment companion jumped.

"Uh, hello. Th-there was nowhere else to sit, so I-"

With a yawn, he waved the red-haired boy away. "I don't care. Are we there yet?"

"I have no idea, I'm a first year, you see, the name is-"

"That's great. Wake me when we get there."

He rolled over and fell asleep again, too tired to worry about a thing.

* * *

Ron bit his lip in disappointment. He was really hoping to make friends with this weird guy. He looked, well, absolutely wicked. Something about the way he held himself, not to mention that weird scar on his face...

He didn't get the American accent though. That was rather strange.

His stomach growled as Scabbers chewed through the bread of his sandwich. Merlin's beard, he hoped they would get there soon. He was looking forward to the famed welcome feast.

* * *

Booker woke up an hour later.

The sun had set, and the boy across from him had changed into the school uniform, reminding him to do the same, which he quickly did, not caring for privacy.

He hadn't had a sense of modesty for many a year.

The compartment was quiet as the rest of the train ride rocked its way along the tracks. A castle slowly crept into view, illuminating the night with a warm glow. A small village was set before it, and a large forest off to the side. A large lake completed the fairytale look, and Booker sighed.

He wasn't sure he would look forward to schooling, but he did want to get his 'magic' under control, and maybe figure out why he couldn't go through his tears.

The train slowed to a crawl, then halted completely at a station.

The students disembarked in a disorderly fashion, students old and new alike all crowding on the station.

"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" a slightly familiar large man was yelling over the chatter, and Booker headed that way, not even trying to deal with the crowd of children who rushed forward. He simply stepped to the side, letting them pass them, and settled for being a straggler.

The children rushed onto rickety little boats, four per boat, but he managed to get a boat alone. Maybe the boats knew he wanted to be alone, maybe it was a stroke of luck. He climbed in regardless, feeling uneasy on the water.

There was a great many 'ooh's and 'ahh's from the batch of boats as the castle came into view. Boats rocked gently as the young ones strained their necks to get a better view; Booker had to admit it was quite the view, having never seen a castle, and up close even more so.

Well, at least it didn't have the faces of past American Presidents on it. That had been more than a bit creepy.

* * *

When the boats finally docked at the foot of the castle, Booker was starting to feel queasy. He wasn't sure what it was. Something in his gut was twisting, and his heart was beating at a million miles an hour.

Stepping off the boat helped, and when they were finally far enough from the shore to hear the waves, he felt himself ease up. He still felt exhausted, though, almost dead on his feet as he followed the crowd into the castle. A tall lady gave a speech, but he didn't bother to listen. There was also a small commotion involving a frog, er, no a toad, but he wasn't exactly a part of it and stood off to the side, quiet.

Finally, they entered a large hall, lined with four tables, even _more_ students seated at them, all wearing black robes and what seemed to be dunce caps.

What the fuck.

He and the other young children were ushered towards the end of the room where a large, severely worn hat was placed on top of a stool. Then a tear near the brim of the hat opened and it began to sing.

 _Oh you may not think I'm pretty,_  
 _But don't judge on what you see,_  
 _I'll eat myself if you can find_  
 _A smarter hat than me._

 _You can keep your bowlers black,  
_ _Your top hats sleek and tall,  
_ _For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_  
 _And I can cap them all._

 _There's nothing hidden in your head_  
 _The Sorting Hat can't see,_  
 _So try me on and I will tell you_  
 _Where you ought to be._

 _You might belong in Gryffindor,_  
 _Where dwell the brave at heart,_  
 _Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_  
 _Set Gryffindors apart;_

 _You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
_ _Where they are just and loyal,_  
 _Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_  
 _And unafraid of toil;_

 _Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
_ _if you've a ready mind,_  
 _Where those of wit and learning,_  
 _Will always find their kind;_

 _Or perhaps in Slytherin  
_ _You'll make your real friends,_  
 _Those cunning folks use any means_  
 _To achieve their ends._

 _So put me on! Don't be afraid!_  
 _And don't get in a flap!_  
 _You're in safe hands (though I have none)_  
 _For I'm a Thinking Cap!_

There was a large round of applause from around the whole room at that, and Booker grimaced. He was in far over his head. Dunce caps, singing hats, what was next, an animated lion's head?

He hoped not, but felt like he may have jinxed himself.

The lady who had brought them into the hall then pulled out of a list of names. "When I call your name, you will come forward and I will place the Sorting Hat on your head so you may be placed in your house." She paused, taking a look at the list and shouted, "Abbot, Hannah!"

A girl with blonde hair shyly stepped up and was sorted into Hufflepuff.

Booker tuned out the rest of the sortings until he heard, "Potter, Harry!"

That was him. He ignored the sudden whispers that overtook the hall and made his way through the crowd of children to sit on the stool under the sentient hat.

 _"Most interesting... Why, Mr. Potter, or rather, Mr. DeWitt. It has been a great many year since I met a full aware reincarnation."_

A what.

 _"A reincarnation, Mr. DeWitt... I see you're not very interested. Very well! Let us sort you."_

Did Booker get a choice?

 _"Depends on whether or not you fit into more than one house! Let's see... plenty of courage, yes... ambition is a bit lacking, definitely not that... no thirst for knowledge, just enough to control your powers... and a fierce loyalty to those that earn it. Yes. I do believe you would do well in Gryffindor, though Hufflepuff is also a viable choice."_

Booker just wanted to be left alone.

 _"Well, you won't be getting that at all, my boy, I'm afraid to say. But your wish for privacy will be most respected in..."_

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

There was silence, and then tentative clapping as Booker made his way over to the yellow-themed table, watching as his robes changed color to match his house. He took a seat and waited for the rest of the sorting to end.

* * *

Albus stroked his beard in an effort to calm himself.

This was not something he had calculated. The boy was in Hufflepuff, of all the houses! He had been worrying about him going to Slytherin, or maybe even Ravenclaw, but not Hufflepuff! He could only hope this didn't change _too_ many plans.

Down the table, Severus Snape smirked on the inside.

Oh, what he would give to see Potter's face when his son was placed in Hufflepuff. Truly priceless.

On the other side of the table, Pomona Sprout felt a strange welling of pride in her soul.

Harry Potter! In her house! This was most unforeseen, what with Trelawney going on and on about Potter supposedly going to Slytherin - something Dumbledore found very alarming, oddly enough - but there he was, sitting at her table, looking a smidge bored, but absolutely darling.

Minerva, who was still sorting, hid her reaction as best as she could, but couldn't help the feeling of jealousy. Potter had been meant for _her_ house. His parents were both Gryffindors, after all. But she knew the sorting hat never made mistakes, and went down the list of names once more.

* * *

When food finally appeared, Booker held back no bars. He'd always had a big appetite, and he grabbed at least three of everything, piled it on his plate, and dug in. This felt so much better than eating food from tears.

"So... are you really Harry Potter?" someone asked across from him.

He looked up from where he was, tearing into a chicken leg, and gave them a blank stare before swallowing. "Yes. I think it was kind of obvious that I am."

The student who had asked him looked particularly put off by his accent, but he didn't care, and ate a spoonful of peas.

* * *

After the feast, there was an announcement about several things, but Booker was too exhausted to continue listening to the old man blabber on and on.

Then he did a double take.

It was the old man who had been preventing him from running from the Dursleys.

... shit.

Booker felt his fight or flight instincts go off inside of him and he fought to keep a straight face - or in his case, a permanent scowl - and not run back down to those boats and row away.

The thought of the boats set his nerves on edge. Good god, what was his problem with the boats? No, no, it was... it was the water.

He felt a pair of hands clam around his neck at the thought of the waves.

"First years, please follow me!"

He was shaken out of his horror by the sound of a tall young girl calling out to his end of the table, and stood with shaky legs to follow the rest of the first years to the dorm.

The castle's design was overcomplicated and had Booker actually been eleven years old, he was sure he would get lost. No, scratch that. He was _definitely_ going to get lost. The stairways were moving, the paintings were alive, there were ghosts, and at least seven floors, each with several corridors. That had been all he could tell from a quick glance as the older student led the group downwards to the castle's basement.

"You see this stack of barrels?" the student said, coming to a stop at said stack of barrels. "In order to access the Hufflepuff basement, you must tap the rhythm of 'Helga Hufflepuff' onto the lid of the barrel two from the bottom, middle of the row. Got it?"

There was a mess of noises as the first years all confirmed and chattered amongst themselves about the strange way to enter the common room.

The older student then provided an example, and led the way into the common room, which was homey and earthy. Had it been day, Booker was sure the lights coming through the windows would be magnificent.

"Boys dorms are to the left, girls to the right. Your trunks have already been delivered up to your dorms. Make sure you get a good night's rest, alright? You have a big day ahead of you. If you ever have an questions, don't be afraid to ask an elder student, and if you want my help specifically, ask for Penelope Clearwater."

With that, the students clambered up to bed.

Booker quickly found his bed and immediately began to change. He compared himself to the other students - slightly taller and a bit stocky.

"So you're really Harry Potter?" one of the other kids asked.

He sighed. "No of course not, I'm the queen of England and part owl."

"You're part owl?!"

He glared at the kid, who gave him a cheeky grin in return.

Booker told himself to calm down. This was a kid, after all.

He hooted jokingly, and the kid laughed.

He went to sleep with not much other incident, but his dreams were filled with the sounds of waves and wide blue eyes.

* * *

 **AN: hey there, its pastry again (i mean, who else would it be)**

 **thank you all for 400+ views on this fic. doesnt mean much in the long run, but its a lot of views in a short time and i'm glad to see that people are giving my fic a chance, even if it only fits a rather niche audience (my friend's words, not mine. thanks, jarod)**

 **anyways. third chapter. much longer, because i didnt want to have all these damn chapters with boring fluff about the train ride and sorting hat and all that. cut it all together, make it work. boom.**

 **i have a lot of the story set already, its a matter of writing it.** **i will update at least weekly, but i can make no promises that updates will be quick. i hope you understand.**

 **feel free to leave a review on your way out (if you want to, of course, you are by no means obligated to and i will continue to publish whether or not you do)!**

 **have a nice day!**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: my apologies for not saying this earlier, but thank you all so much for reviewing. it means so much to me that people are reading and enjoying my fic. i love and appreciate everyone who reads my writing, and i hope you continue to read it.**

 **on a secondary note, i've heard so many bad things about 'the cursed child' that i'm severely discouraged from reading it. at this point, anything in that play will not be implemented into this fic. if i do end up reading it and deciding to change it, i will let you all know, but right now i'm just disappointed in JKR for attempting to milk the franchise again.**

 **just write something new, please.**

* * *

The students had a day to get used to the castle, but Booker felt like it should be longer.

They were giving children a whole lot of responsibility in one day. He'd gotten a speech about 'house points' and such that morning from his Head of House, Professor Sprout, which had apparently already been given the night before, but he did not remember it at all. Students had to know their own way around the school. In some cases, they were still adjusting to the fact that magic exists!

Was Booker the only adult(?) who saw this? Perhaps it was from having a kid, and having continuous worries about said child's future.

He still worried about her, to this day, and instinctually rubbed the back of his hand for some comfort.

It wasn't there. The scar was...

Right. He shook himself before he got caught up in memory, and left the common room with the rest of his year.

The group had managed not to get lost by following any other students they saw in the halls to get to the hall they had been in the night before, which, as Booker found out, was dubbed the 'Great Hall'. Very creative.

* * *

Booker had thought the education of this school something of a joke when he saw the textbooks.

Herbology? Defense Against the Dark Arts? Potions? Sure, they had Astronomy for science but for all he knew it was going to be something ridiculous. He could only hope that any of the other school subjects simply didn't warrant a textbook.

He was proven wrong in one day.

It was the first day of classes, and Booker sighed after a fitful night of sleep, but made his way up to the Great Hall regardless.

As he ate a bagel and fought the urge to drink the coffee on the table, he received a timetable telling him his classes. He was immediately let down when he saw no sign of 'English' or 'Mathematics'. He hadn't gotten a proper education in his past life, managing to scrape by with a job as a newspaper boy paying for his meager schooling. At least he was learning something new, he supposed.

He followed his classmates to get to his classes, asking the strange, living paintings for directions when he was lost. There was no way he would remember the path.

Currently, he was following a blonde lady that highly reminded him of his former wife, except for the fact that she wore a much older styled dress and a large tiara. She was leading him to Transfiguration (the final class of the day) which seemed the most complex of the subjects and made him wonder why the hell they were teaching something like that to children. They were eleven, for crying out loud.

... since when did he become such a dad? He'd done a shit job a long time ago, what with, you know, selling his daughter. At times he could just imagine a time where she grew up and he raised her properly, almost as if it were real. Anna getting a college degree, finding a lover, getting married, being a nurse during World War I, so on so forth.

He ignored the sudden head pain at that. He didn't want to think about... he had failed. He had to accept that.

He entered the Transfiguration, wiping at the slight nosebleed with his sleeve, and took a seat next to the nearest person, a girl in Draven... uh, the blue house, if her robes were anything to go by.

He looked around for the teacher, finding it rather irresponsible that she wasn't around. Children misbehaved so easily - for all she knew they would start throwing around spells they hardly knew or something like that, or maybe even - god forbid it - get hurt. There was just an elderly looking cat seated on the desk at the front, tail flicking lazily as its gaze roamed across the room.

Just as the last few students finally arrived, the cat stood up, leaped from the table, and suddenly morphed into the teacher.

Well, at least she hadn't abandoned her students completely, even if fooling them on a very strange margin. He had no idea that people could transform into animals. Summon them, maybe, like he did with his crows, or maybe with bees. He had no idea where he got the idea of summoning bees, but it was viable, he supposed.

Derailing that train of thought, Booker settled in for an interesting class.

While he hardly understood most of it, the basics were... uh.

Okay, scratch that. He had no idea what he was working with. Turning a matchstick into a needle? What the hell! If he couldn't grasp the sciences behind the floating of Columbia, what would make anyone think he could understand _magic?_ Hell, he had trouble with division in the best of times. This was a lost cause.

At dinner that evening, he was considering any possible way to figure this out. He would have asked McGonagall, but hadn't had the time, and honestly didn't like the way she looked at him. It was... weird.

"... such a menace! Honestly! Like anyone cares that she read through all of the textbooks four times!"

"She just got lucky with the needle. Big deal."

"I know right? It's just a needle, getting it first try is nothing."

Booker perked his ears. The Giffin... Giffintour(?) table was adjacent to the Hufflepuff one, and he turned to the group of Grinningor... Gillinbor girls behind him.

"Excuse me, who are you talking about?" he asked, and the girls jumped.

"Um, Hermione Granger?" one of them answered. "The know it all over there." She gestured down the table at a small girl with dark bushy hair with her nose in a book, gently eating her mashed potatoes, but obviously far more interesting in her reading material.

"Thanks," he muttered. He would ask if she had any insight another time. The book was obviously rather interesting, and he wouldn't lie - he had a stubborn streak a mile wide. Asking help was a rarity for him. He would give it a week before he asked for help.

* * *

All the other classes were not really notable. Charms, while fun, was about as engaging as Herbology, and Booker had never cared much for plants. Astronomy was straight boring. The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was absolute shit, and Booker got a terrible headache every time he attended the class.

Potions had been only a little bit interesting. The teacher had seemed to have strange expectations of him, throwing question after question at Booker, who answered with simple shrugs.

"You are an utter imbecile, Potter," the man said, and Booker recognized him as the man who had helped stop his last runaway attempt. That dick. Booker felt a bit more on guard at the realization.

"Well, you see, I'm here to learn those things. So are you gonna teach us, or spend an unnecessary amount of time calling children, who have yet to learn anything, idiots?"

The man looked as though he had swallowed something particularly bitter. "Perhaps you should have studied your books before coming here, Potter."

"I did. None of the things you asked were even so much as mentioned in the book, so I don't know what you're playing at, but I think the whole class would appreciate it if you just started teaching us already."

The man left him alone, but made no move to hide his disdain for Booker.

Said student did not give a shit.

* * *

The final class Booker had to attend was a Flying class. Apparently all that mumbo jumbo about witches flying on broomsticks was true, and Booker felt truly scandalized. The implications... didn't these people know what it meant? These were children! Riding a broomstick was suppose to bed like riding the Devil's, well. You fill in the blanks.

Regardless, he shouted, "Up!" at a broomstick, watched it fly up into his hand, and mounted it.

He tried his best to fly, though, but felt too uncomfortable, and quickly dismounted. It was just too uncomfortable, and flying... if he was gonna fly it was gonna be in an airship. Why did wizards have to make everything so difficult? He was already having trouble using a quill and parchment, why use a damn broomstick?

"Potter! Why are you off your broom?" the teacher asked.

"I'm not good with flying, ma'am," he replied. "It just doesn't appeal to me."

She had a strangely disappointed look, but nodded. "I understand. It's not for everyone, but it's still good to know, as it is a highly common form of travel."

"Thank you for the advice, ma'am, but I would rather hike and swim to my destination than fly."

He, as well as a few of the other Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, had opted out of the flying and were seated on the ground

* * *

By the end of the first week, he had no idea what to do about the Transfiguration problem. He was managing with other magic, but not with this. No matter how much magic he threw at it, it just didn't work. So, one lunch break, Booker took one look at the Gettinmor table and confirmed that Granger wasn't in the Great Hall. Maybe the library?

He asked the nearest painting for directions, and lo and behold, after dragging himself up several flights of stairs and around many corners, found her with a stack of books. He took a seat across from her, and she looked up in surprise.

"O-oh! Harry Potter! Can I help you?"

"Some of the girls were saying you got the matchstick into a needle thing down first try. Could you help me out with that?"

She giggled. "It wasn't the first try, but sure! Show me what you've got."

He took out a matchstick and his wand, and repeated the incantation. Just like the past two times, nothing happened.

"I have no idea what I'm doing wrong," he told her.

"Well, magic is all about intent. You have to _want_ to make it turn into a needle."

"Why the hell would I want to turn a matchstick into a needle."

She had no response but to laugh. "You don't want to, you just intend for it to happen," she said, still giggling. "Have you managed the Wingardium Leviosa spell?"

"Yeah. But I actually have a use for levitating things. I don't have any use in turning a matchstick into a needle. I have no need of either of them."

She gave him a sorry look. "I really don't know how to help you. I guess you just have to force yourself to have the intent."

Booker sighed and stood up. "Sorry for wasting your time, Granger. I'll figure something out," he said in a dismayed tone, completely missing her disappointed look at his leaving.

* * *

He gave up by the end of the month, moving on to the other spells. McGonagall had been disappointed to see he couldn't do it, but Booker didn't care much. The lady tried her best but she couldn't change his stance on useless things like that.

Intent. Ridiculous. If it was something useful, he would probably be able to do this much easier, but it was a needle. He had experience with sewing but why make a needle out of a matchstick when he could just get a sewing needle, and vice versa? There was just no point. 'Basics' and whatnot were so weird.

October finally arrived with little fanfare. Classes went on, and Booker found that there was something strange happening.

There was no tears around.

Back at the Dursleys he almost couldn't go through a door without one popping up. Hogwarts had nothing.

Had he any knowledge of magic, perhaps he would have made a theory. Instead he just considered it something weird and moved on. Much stranger had happened, after all. Of course, that didn't stop him from wondering.

He figured if the Luteces were around they would tell him in a very complicated manner, but it was better than nothing.

"It is a matter of the amount of magic in the area."

Unsurprised, Booker looked up at the two from his seat on the floor in an empty corridor somewhere on the third floor.

"Elaborate, please."

"You are used to being the only magical being in the area for almost miles, with no outlet. You would continuously release magic in the form of tears," Rosalind said.

"In Hogwarts, magic is everywhere. You aren't the only one with magic anymore, and you are continuously using spells in class. Even the castle itself has magic, sustained by the students presence, and much of your continuously released magic is going into the castle," Robert continued.

"Wait." Booker quirked his head. "The castle is... alive?"

"In a way, yes."

"Due to your ridiculous amount of magical power-"

"-it has become rather fond of you."

"The paintings normally keep to themselves, but you have found numerous friends among them."

Booker scratched his head. "So. I am constantly letting out magic, and it normally comes out in the form of tears, but at Hogwarts the castle soaks it up to fuel itself and has bonded with me? Did I get that all right?"

Robert nodded. Rosalind did nothing.

"... magic is fucking weird."

"Quite."

* * *

October passed with hardly any events. Apparently some Gibbinsyor and Slishbin students (he could not remember the names, for the love of god, it was just so much gibberish) had gotten into a fight at some point, and the house point hourglasses were considerably lower for both houses in the morning, and shame was all around at the tables.

Booker had also learned of the presence of a pair of redheads in the red house, who apparently enjoyed pranks and nearly got him three times before he got too bitter and told them to leave him alone. He didn't like pranks, not when he was already so on guard about traps. The old man (Dung... Dungledor?) was the headmaster of the school, and Booker needed to be on his guard at all times, especially with his hook-nosed lackey.

Being the last day of October, All Hallow's Eve, there were 'spooky' decorations up. Ghosts were more active, pumpkins where _everywhere_ , and children were chattering consistently about the supposed 'candy feast' in the evening.

Booker shrugged and went about his business. He'd never been able to enjoy All Hallow's Eve, or, well, as kids call it these days, 'Halloween', and wasn't in the mood to see any more pumpkins, so after class just went to the library and tried to understand Transfiguration again.

He was not trying the matchstick-needle spell again. Just the whole thing behind intent. As dangerous as he felt, toying with magic and forces he didn't know, it was necessary if he needed to get his vigors under control.

Finally, he gave up, and decided he might as well show up for the end of the feast to grab something to eat. Hopefully the cake was good.

"Dear! You have to hurry to the girls lavatory! There's a troll in the school headed her way and she doesn't know!"

Booker looked up. It was that painting that looked like his dead wife.

"Me?" he asked, dubiously. He may have been a soldier in a past life but right now he was just a child.

"Yes! Grab her and run! I'll lead the way!"

Booker had no time to respond before she began to lead the way, and he quickly followed, seeing no reason not to. It was a child, after all, and he felt something of a hero instinct in him.

Finally, many corridors later and almost out of breath, they arrived at the bathroom, only to see the troll walking in.

"Shit," the man said, ignoring the offended look on the blonde painting woman, and dashing over to the nearest suit of armor and grabbed the sword it held. "I need to borrow this."

And he dashed into the bathroom with vigor.

* * *

Hermione crouched in a corner, feeling tears well up in her eyes. This was it. This was how she was going to die.

Friendless, alone, at the hands of a troll, of all things.

The troll lifted its club, and Hermione's heart almost stopped.

"Hey!"

The club was lowered gently as the monster turned to look at the newcomer.

It was... Harry Potter, red in the face and out of breath, wielding a sword.

"Yeah, that's right you big fucker. Just look at me."

Too frightened to stand, the young girl watched the boy lure the monster away.

"Granger, get out of here," Potter barked. "I'll hold it off a bit, you go get a teacher."

Her eyes widened. "But-"

"You're a bit more important than I am, Granger! Now, go!"

She swallowed her fear, paused, and then ran for it.

The troll noticed at the last second, taking a slow swing at her.

"Duck!"

Hermione fell to the floor, feeling the club graze the air above her. She looked back and saw that Potter had used the sword to slice into one of the troll's legs to get its attention back, and he nodded at her to leave.

Guilt built up inside her as she dashed down the corridor hoping that someone, anyone would come and help.

* * *

Back in the bathroom, Booker rolled out of the way. He had no idea how to use a sword. It was strangely off in his hand. He was far more used to heavy guns and his skyhook.

The club came down right next to him, and Booker, out of instinct, stabbed it. He cursed himself, attempting to pry it off, only to for the troll to lift its weapon, and Booker held onto the sword like an idiot.

Confused, the troll lifted the club to look at the new addition to his weapon, lifting Booker with it. He held it above his head to the light, lifting a hand to poke at it, unwittingly giving Booker an opening.

He pried his sword free with some effort and much more grunting, and dropped down onto the troll's face, plunging the sword into its eye. A spurt of blood hit Booker right in the face, but he did not let up, shoving the sword in further.

The monster roared in pain, fell over, and landed on the floor in a heap, Booker standing atop it triumphantly.

"Mr. Potter!"

He looked to the door to see Hermione, eyes still full of fear, gripping Professor McGonagall's robes. A couple of other teacher could be seen crowding near the door.

"Hi," he replied.

* * *

About an hour and a half later, Booker and Hermione were in the Hospital Wing, being tended to by the nurse for their meager injuries. The worst was a particularly bad scrape on Hermione's arm.

Regardless, Madam Pomfrey, the doctor on call, did not let the two out and said they could go to class in the morning.

Soon, it was just Hermione and Booker in the Wing, sitting quietly.

Hermione almost spoke up several times, but got too shy to do so, so Booker spoke instead.

"Do you wanna sit with me at lunch?"

She jumped, not expecting a conversation to spring, then looked over at him in confusion. "I'm not sure that's allowed, we're supposed to sit with our houses."

"I doubt there's a rule for it. Besides, the teachers are always talking about 'house unity' so why should they stop us?"

Hermione went over the school rules several times, but found that he was right. "I-I guess, but it's just... embarrassing."

"Then I'll sit with you. It doesn't matter much to me." Booker shrugged.

"O-okay. I guess, I see no problem with it," Hermione replied, a little astounded.

The room went silent again for a bit before Booker said, "I guess this makes you my first friend."

Hermione, though shocked to hear that, smiled. "And you mine."

* * *

 **AN: good day, its pastry again, how are all of you? (doing well and in good health, i hope)**

 **i hope you are all enjoying the fic so far. we hit a little more than 1000 views and i won't lie, anytime the stats on this fic go up a number, i feel a thrill of joy. thank you all so much.**

 **i have changed the summary to be a bit more fitting. booker won't be changing everything, just a lot; however, it wont really show until later on in the fic. i have a lot of ideas and plot twists i can't wait to spring on all of you. here i am, rubbing my little hands together, forgetting to do anything else because i'm so excited about writing this fic.**

 **also, just to clarify, i will DEFINITELY not be pairing booker with any of the characters he interacts with, especially not hermione. he's an old man, she's eleven. that's disgusting. i do have an idea of possibly bringing back to the siren and pairing him with her, but he will not be paired with any of the harry potter characters.**

 **i mean, if you tilt your head the right way, he's almost 100 years old (going off of birth year instead of age when he died) so this old man in a kid's body is going to stick to himself.**

 **also yes, riding a broomstick was an implication of riding the devil's dick. booker, being somewhat formerly religious, finds it a little horrifying around children, but i doubt the magical community knows or even cares.**

 **anyways, i hope you all have a nice day! leave a review if you would like!**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN:** **this is a bit late, sorry. i came back from my vacation and jetlag was a bitch. sorry about that.**

 **to The Amazing Grayson (my favorite of the batfamily, not gonna lie): i have considered it, actually! at the same time, i don't want romance to be a focus for this fic. its about the story and friendship and booker trying his best to make up for his past mistake in any way he can, while also learning to live a little.**

 **maybe one day, romance will bloom. booker dewitt and poppy pomfrey. all those naughty nurse scenarios, am i right? *wink wink***

 **to RG: i think that there might be some canon typical romance. no shipping, maybe just crushes and drama as is expected of highschoolers, but no full on pairings unless they are set by canon (and make sense).**

 **to DarthAvariss: thank you so much! i've really tried to stay true to booker's character: a blunt man who stumbles his way through everything by the skin on his back, and always has a witty retort. he's one of my favorite characters (i even have a pop figure of him! its on my printer). also he won't be playing quidditch, don't worry! after columbia he's a bit sick of being high up in the air.**

* * *

Being friends with Hermione was something of an experience. If Booker had to describe the feeling, it would be like if Elizabeth were back, but with magic, being much more of a goody-two shoes, and they were in a boarding school.

It was nice.

It felt right.

Sort of.

Hermione wasn't exactly like Elizabeth, there were definitely key differences. Hermione had bushier hair, much larger and longer, and much darker. Her skin was darker, her eyes brown, not to mention the Oxford accent. She was shorter and younger (that one was a given though), and while an intellectual and curious girl, she was too shy to talk to people, unlike Elizabeth, who had no problem interacting with others. Yet, they both had the same passion for knowledge, and that made Hermione so endearing in Booker's eyes.

The first time he had joined her at the uh... red house table for lunch, she had been rather surprised - as had the rest of the table, and a few of the teachers. There was a small amount of uproar but then the headmaster quieted everyone, announced how proud he was for this 'house unity' and gave a grandfatherly smile to them all.

Booker resisted the urge to flip him off, and sat down with his friend. Some other people around the hall took his example, and sat at other tables.

Many people attempted to talk to him, but he shook them off. They weren't that interesting. A whole bunch of redheads tried their best to be interesting, but he finally snapped when someone interrupted Hermione and his conversation again.

"Listen you bunch of idiots. I'm not here for a meet and greet. I'm here to talk to my friend, and we will gladly move to the Hufflepuff table if you don't leave us alone."

One of the redheads, who Booker recognized as the boy who had been in his compartment back on the train, spoke up. "Why would you want to hang out with Granger though? She's a nightmare!"

Hermione stiffened next to Booker, and he gave the boy a dirty look before guiding Hermione out of the hall, ignoring any looks sent their way. He didn't care for them, only the girl at his side.

"You want to go to the library?" he asked her gently, and she nodded, sniffing.

After walking in companionable silence, she said, "He's the reason why I was in the bathroom that night, with the troll."

Booker's hand tightened around hers as she continued.

"He had been calling me a nag and a know-it-all for weeks because I tried to help him with a spell in Charms class and I just-"

Her voice cracked, and Booker pulled her into a hug.

"I couldn't handle it! I considered asking Professor McGonagall for help but it fled from my mind when the troll attacked and now I'm too scared! What if I tell her and she tells me to handle it myself? I'm a Gryffindor! I'm supposed to be brave and fierce and I can't even tell someone to leave me alone!"

She pulled away all of the sudden. "I-I'm sorry. We hardly know each other and here I am, spilling all my troubles on you."

He gave her a gentle smile. "I don't mind. That's what friends are for - being there for one another."

Hermione gave him a shy smile, and Booker smiled back.

"Thank you, Harry."

* * *

There were hardly any new developments in school. The duo made their way through classes, Hermione ranking at the top and Booker somewhere in the middle, as he wasn't very motivated. Far as he knew, once he got out of school he would become a P.I. again or something. Something he knew how to do.

Well, that was still seven or so years away. Why think about it this early?

There had been a debacle about a baby dragon at one point, and some annoying blond kid kept trying to pick fights with Booker, though that quickly came to an end when Booker had threatened the kid with a bit more force than necessary. He felt justified, of course, as the kid had just called Hermione a 'mudblood' whatever the hell that meant, but that didn't mean he had to call the kid a spoiled sack of shit. He felt bad, but only a little bit.

And then the blond moved on to a new target, another Gryffindor (Hermione had drilled the name into his head).

Hermione, who knew the boy and pitied him, asked Booker to maybe help him out.

And that was how Neville Longbottom was folded into their little group.

* * *

Neville was a shy one, that was for sure. Another Gryffindor in their little group, though that hardly mattered.

He liked plants, and excelled in Herbology, giving pointers to his new friends when asked.

Booker only really knew a few flowers by name, and with all these magical plants things got so much more complicated, but having a kid - a very enthusiastic kid - explaining drilled it into his head; and soon, with time, Hermione droning on and on about magical theory got into his head, and he finally managed that damn matchstick into a needle spell.

"It's still useless," he insisted, ignoring his friends celebratory whoops of joy, "and keep quiet or the librarian is gonna yell at us again."

They immediately hushed at that, quietly giggling as he shook his head in exasperation. He did had a bit of an easier time in class from then on.

* * *

When Christmas came, Booker found himself alone. Hermione wanted to see her parents - a life-threatening experience made her rather homesick.

Neville also went home, as he was required to be present for the Longbottom Yule Ball.

Booker, of course, did not go back. He spent his time first doing winter assignments, and then, upon finishing them, reading. Not much else to do, really. His past hobbies had been drinking and gambling, and he had no way to access either of those. There were children playing chess and other board games in the Great Hall, but Booker had never been one for games like those. He liked good music and a relaxed atmosphere - like a bar, or a casino. Of course, in the latter they were just trying to empty your pockets, but Booker still liked it.

He also chatted with the paintings a lot more. They were all rather unique. If based off of someone who existed or does exist already, they would take up the mantle of that person.

The lady who guided him to many of his classes (until he began to remember the way) finally introduced herself as Cassiopeia Malfoy. Apparently she knew the blond little shit who had been picking on Neville and Hermione - he was, after all, her descendent - but she surprised Booker in disapproving of his actions.

"A Malfoy does not stoop to petty insults. It is unbecoming of him, especially as the future Scion of the Malfoy Family," she sniffed, turning up her nose. Booker snorted in response.

Soon, Christmas came, and Booker awoke with a small pile of presents at the foot of his bed. It surprised him a bit, to get presents. He hadn't celebrated Christmas in... what, thirty years? He hadn't celebrated when Anna was gone, right? Hm... he couldn't remember, but it had at least been a decade, what with living with the Dursleys.

His first present was from Hermione. A planner. He knew she meant well but he wasn't sure it would be of much use to him.

A small note from the Dursleys was found. He threw it into the common room fire without opening it.

Neville sent a lovely scarf with matching gloves. Booker was sure he would wear it rather often, especially with all the snow around. He'd always wanted to explore the grounds. Now was his chance to check it out.

A fourth small package suddenly caught his eye.

Your Father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it Well.

The small note stuck out of the package, and Booker, though curious, was cautious. He opened it slowly, and found a strange cloth in it. He picked it up, a little bit confused.

It was a cloak. A silvery cloak that, while beautiful, definitely wasn't Booker's style.

He put it on and looked down to see the rest of his body had disappeared from sight.

He immediately threw the cloak off, balled it up, wrapped it back into its package, and shoved it to the bottom of his trunk.

Why did magic have to be so weird and alarming?

* * *

The snow was dense, going up to Booker's knees.

Curse his childish body, making things difficult. He supposed it wasn't that bad, as he was warm from a spell that Hermione had insisted he memorize, saying that the castle was too drafty and something about the ghosts making the whole place chillier. The former soldier was sure the bottom halves of his pants were soaked through, though, and the magic was preventing him from feeling it. He had forgone the robe since he knew it would drag in the snow, but now he was of the realization that he had no way to dry his damn pants.

Well, he would cross that bridge when he got to it. Or burn it. Who knows.

The grounds, as it turned out, were fairly boring. Trees. One weird moving tree, which he avoided. More trees. A weird little hut, where a large man invited him in for tea. Booker declined; coffee was more to his taste.

There was the lake, of course, but it was almost frozen over at this point and Booker didn't want to look at it. Terrible thing, that lake.

After a couple of hours of walking around in soaked pants, Booker went back in to get a new pair, searched desperately for a spell to keep them dry, stop for dinner, and then went out again, this time into the forest.

Mysterious? Absolutely. Dangerous? Probably. Did he have anything better to do? Nope. He slipped on his new cloak just in case, and set off.

Into the forest he went.

* * *

It was early evening by the time Booker made it to the forest. The atmosphere was eerie, but nothing he couldn't handle.

Maybe if he had that sword he had used to kill that giant ugly thing a while back he would feel a bit better, but McGonagall had confiscated it and every other sword in the school, mainly due to the story of Booker heroics spreading and inciting sudden sword fights in the hallways. He didn't even know how to wield a sword properly in the first place. A knife, maybe, a bayonet yes, but nothing more fancy than that.

Twigs snapped under Booker's shoes, but he just took his time to take in the sights. He was in no hurry to go anywhere, as there was still a few days of winter break remaining and if he went missing, someone would come looking for him. The trees loomed in a way that was unfamiliar - he had grown up among buildings and slums, never much nature around. Maybe during his stint as a soldier, at Wounded Knee, but he...

Booker shook his head. The blood on his hands would never be washed away.

He stepped in a strange, sticky pool, suddenly, and he lifted his foot in wonder. It was silvery, this substance, and the small puddle of it trailed off the path and into the woods.

A brief story of a girl in a hood straying off the path in the woods came to mind, but Booker brushed it off. There may be magic, but this wouldn't end up a fairytale, not if he was involved. Everything ended with blood when it came to him.

He set off to follow the liquid.

It trailed on, in an awkward fashion - a spill here, a puddle there, and a feeling of dread set on soon Booker came to a clearing. A dead horse lay in the middle, oozing with the silvery substance - blood, his mind supplied, and it couldn't have been anything else - and a hunched figure knelt next to it. In the darkness, he couldn't make out a thing, but he could swear there was a face on the back of this person's head.

Then the figure turned, alarmed, and launched itself at Booker.

He did the first thing that came to mind and shot some Shock Jockey, hitting the person, then spreading the electricity to the various trees along the clearing, igniting a small fire.

The figure screamed in pain, stunned for a moment, giving the soldier a moment to back away, before fleeing; he did not want to fight, especially at a large disadvantage.

Well, as Booker looked back at the small forest fire, who needs the power company indeed? Maybe a firefighter though.

* * *

 **AN: hello. pastry. now to address something only slightly serious.**

 **i got my first hate review, which is to be expected! *pops one of those celebratory confetti things* i will be posting any guest review, no matter how terrible, provided it doesn't contain content that should really not be posted in a fanfiction review.**

 **so, i won't be posting it here but feel free to read it if you want to know what it details.**

 **so! to 'peon':**

 **i can see we do not see things eye to eye. how we view booker as a character varies. to me, booker isn't the type to stick to being on the run all the time. if he can settle down, he will take it. assassinating 'mind r*pists' (good god i hate that term, r*pe makes me very uncomfortable) would put a spotlight on him, and he really isn't much of a stealth type character. how would he even get into their quarters? i'm sure there's countermeasures to assassins or students intending on putting hair dye in someone's shampoo.**

 **i don't really see how putting the sorting hat's song in my fic makes it shitty, though. its a song. it's really not that big of a deal, and this is a creative outlet for me. i'm not going to tailor my fic to your wishes. booker will kill people, but i'm going for a slow story, not 'kill everyone, get the girl, get out'. this isn't the game.** **these characters are human and i will treat them as such, and do my best not to butcher their characters.**

 **my readers are human, and i will treat them as such. some might enjoy the song, like i do. it gives me a feeling of nostalgia, and whether or not it is present in the story makes no difference to me. you don't like the song? don't read! not that bit of a deal.**

 **you don't have to enjoy this work, so feel free to leave flames all you want, i don't mind and i won't censor you unless it turns to slurs or spam. so long as you leave the fans of my work alone, i don't mind.**

 **and hey, if i ruined the premise, why not write it yourself? then i can leave a review on all my favorite parts of it! win-win situation!**

 **now, onto more important things:**

 **small fun fact: when first playing the game i got really lost really easily. i decided to stick that in the fic with booker getting lost in the castle. i am not good with directions, never ask me for them. if i ever went to hogwarts i would trip on a false step and break my neck (good riddance am i right, im sure 'peon' would agree)**

 **also there is no denying. a lot of the words in the wizarding world of harry potter are complete gibberish, and booker is an old man. give him a break, gittinpor is a ridiculous name for a school house.**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: sorry for the late chapter! school started up and i've been busy. friends, senior year, so on so forth, its all a bit much. im glad all those gay fanfics i read keep the edge off ;^) gotta love the femslash**

 **on a different note, im thinking of changing the summary again, after some retrospection. lemme know what you think?**

 **hope you all enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

Booker was relaxing on his bed in the Hufflepuff dorms, staring at his hands and contemplating what he was doing on this strange road of life.

He hadn't meant to really start a forest fire, and felt a small bout of guilt when various magical animals and such had to take refuge on the school grounds due to the fire wiping out their homes. The groundskeeper was furious, waving around a particularly nasty looking crossbow, and Dumbypore had taken twenty minutes to calm him down.

Man, Booker needed to get his shit together. Couldn't go starting forest fires too often.

What if he hurt Hermione or Neville?

Taken aback by the thought, he sat up in his bed. God, he couldn't live with himself if he did that. They were kids... they were his _friends_... God, he really needed to work on this.

Maybe... maybe he should ask for help. He hated asking for help, leaving himself indebted and fucked over, but this was important.

* * *

Flitwick had thought that Harry Potter was an interesting student. The boy was cynical, practical, and an old soul - it was in his aura. This, however, was an interesting request from _any_ student.

"You want help controlling your magic?"

"Yes."

Stroking his mustache, Flitwick replied, "You do realize that this school is supposed to do that, yes? You are _supposed_ to be learning how to control your magic. I'm not sure what you're asking. What else you could possibly want?"

Potter seemed to have some sort of internal battle if his expression was anything to go by, and then the boy admitted, "I... uh, I started the fire. In the forest."

Flitwick's eyebrows raised. "And how did you do this, if I may ask?"

"I saw a guy, eating a unicorn or something, and tried to electrocute him, but it was too powerful and spread to the trees."

Filing away the 'eating a unicorn' part to report to Hagrid, Flitwick considered this request.

"There is not much to be done. Doing mundane spells, such as simple transfiguration, fine tunes your control into something better. The more control you have, the easier if will be to control how much magic you put into a spell."

"Simple transfiguration?"

"Such as turning a matchstick into a needle."

Potter let out a very loud swear and was immediately docked ten points.

* * *

The weekly teacher meeting was boring, as always, during the holidays. Having no students around meant that there was nothing happening. No Weasley twins' pranks to chat about, no strange essays to laugh over.

Today, though, Flitwick had something important to bring up.

"Colleagues, I will not reveal names for the sake of this student, but due to recent evidence, I do believe that there is very Dark wizard among us."

Many eyes glanced Severus Snape's way.

"I will not eliminate any possibilities, but let us not draw any conclusions just yet. This perpetrator must have let dangerous things onto the school grounds, which have been the troll during Halloween and an unidentified being in the forest who was caught feasting on unicorn blood."

Hagrid let out a roar of rage and stood up. "Unicorn blood?! Why I outta, I outta bloody-"

"Hagrid, my friend, please calm yourself!" Dumbledore said, arms raised. "Let Filius finish talking."

Disgruntled, the half-giant sat. Flitwick continued.

"Upon finding this being, the student set them on fire, as well as the forest."

Snape scoffed. "I see no reason to hide this student. They endangered many beings and have done significant property damage. They should be punished."

"I agree," Quirrell said, not stuttering for once.

"Did neither of you hear what Filius just said?" Minerva demanded. "Someone, possibly in this room, has been responsible for endangering our students, and all you care about is giving a student detention and docking points? Severus, this is nothing new from you, but Quinirus?"

Quirrell squeamed under her glare. "I-it sounded like a good idea, Professor. I was not thinking."

Flitwick eyed the man with suspicion, and the meeting was adjourned.

* * *

"Concentrate, Mr. Potter, Concentrate on making that matchstick into a needle. Sharp and pointy!"

Flitwick had resolved to give Book remedial transfiguration lessons, and while they worked, he did not like being yelled at.

At the very least, he was able to master several spells he'd been having trouble with at the beginning of the year. McGonagall had noticed the change in his work too, but did not ask. She didn't seem to like him all too much.

The best thing, though, was that Hermione could _finally_ stop bugging him to learn proper magical theory.

Instead, she was now on Neville's case about it. He had Booker's sympathy and help there.

"It's not about intent," Booker told the young boy. "It's about want. You _want_ it to turn into a needle? It will turn into a needle. There's hardly anything magic can't do if you just want something."

This was something that Booker had experimented with. Most spells came easily when he applied this new technique. Hermione had argued that this was intent, but Booker knew it wasn't. Intent was something you were conscious of. Want was harder to control.

* * *

"Mr. Potter, I apologize for asking this once again, but what did you see out on the grounds that night?"

Booker sighed as he recounted the tale once again. "There was a strange robed figure drinking the blood of a unicorn. Upon my entrance to the clearing, they looked up, but it was too dark to see who it was. They tried to attack me, I retaliated out of instinct, yada yada yada." He knew Flitwick just wanted to find out who this person was, and had been asking for a month now, even after the damage had been rescinded and the woodland folk returned home.

"Listen, professor, if I could give you the memory I could but it's really so far after the fact. I think you should take a break-"

"That's it! Give me the memory!"

Booker gaped. "What? That's possible?" Then he shook his head. Of course it was possible. What a fool he must seem.

"Of course! A very difficult task, but I believe you can master it. Come now, to the library! We must retrieve some books on the magic of the _mind_."

For another month, 'remedial lessons' with Flitwick continued, thought now Booker was learning newer and stranger things. Occlumency, the act of protecting one's mind. Legilimency, the act of entering another's mind. How to organize and withdraw memories. How to organize and withdraw _talent._

There were, of course, dangers that came with this. Booker was still in a child's body and was only allowed to practice one spell, being the one to remove memories. Unwilling to risk this new body of his, this unmarred life, he followed instructions.

But knowledge... well, he could see where Elizabeth came from with her cleverness, Hermione with her books, Lutece with their studies of space and time and how it twists and bends in between.

It was oddly enjoyable. He didn't understand most of it at first glance, having never been a studious person, but once he got the hang of it, it was rather fun.

Fun.

He hadn't had that in such a long time.

It was nice.

* * *

 **AN: GODDDdD this took forever. i just don't want to rush the fic and ruin it or something but i just don't want to stretch it out too much. its a real tug o war.**

 **also this is something i've noticed in a lot of students. they dont really find something interesting until they understand it. well, that much is true for me and a lot of people i know. i decided to apply it to booker. he had the potential to be a good student, he just never had the chance. joined the army at as young an age as possible because he needed money, then wounded knee happened, so on so forth, he's only ever lived in poverty as far as i can tell.**

 **anyways, lemme know what you think about changing the summary (if you wanna of course) and i'll see you all next time!**


	7. Chapter 7

**hello! so sorry this is late. i've been busy with school (senior year and all) and the holidays were busy (i was in a league tourney, my team won)**

 **happy new years, by the way! i sipped some champagne and since im a lightweight i was a lil tipsy right off the bat**

 **i would like to address a review i got saying that it wasnt interesting to read a fic where the main character had an iq less than 50.**

 **sorry man, but booker isn't exactly a genius. money was hard to come by in the days he would've grown up and its a bit implied that he's never had much money (joined military at 16 to get** **money, managed to get a pinkerton job, then fell into debt). child labor laws weren't set until much later so he probably spent his childhood working and not learning. he's _still_ learning. he's clever, yes, but he doesn't have all the puzzle pieces for a genius. im sorry my fic doesnt meet your expectations, but if you made your own version of this fic, where things went as you wanted them to, i'd be happy to read it!**

 **also, for the part about the fundamental laws of magic, i used the fic _Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling_ written by _Fractured Artifact No. 248_. should be chapter four. it will be the only part i'm using from that fic, as theres no mention of the fundamental laws of magic beyond the first law anywhere on the internet or in the books (which i kind of need to know for this fic!)**

 **anyways, on with the fic!**

* * *

Booker let out a loud groan as he bent his head, and was immediately shushed by Madam Pince, to his annoyance.

He'd been studying the principles of magic in terms of space and time to try and figure out his weird tears, but there was _nothing!_ This may be a school library, but it was prized in having nearly every written magical book in existence! Did none of these fools look into how things worked?

All he could find was the fundamental laws of magic.

First law seemed to say that for everything you did, there was a consequence. He and Hermione had talked extensively about it (Neville ignored them in favor of an Herbology book) and she had compared it to one of Newton's laws, a view he easily shared - at least, once she had told him the law. He hadn't had the money for schooling in the past, so he certainly hadn't attended science class.

Second law was about life - not quite what he was looking for, but still interesting. He had never made life, and couldn't exactly try yet, but perhaps when he was out of the castle.

Third law - nothing can be created or destroyed. You can't make something new and you can't obliterate what already exists. Booker wished he could.

Fourth law - death, and its inevitability. Nothing new.

Fifth law - balance? Confusing principles, and nothing important.

Sixth law - Booker had almost kicked a desk in annoyance.

Seventh law - common sense. Don't use magic for everything.

And that was it.

"Hermione, help me," he mumbled, and the girl just shrugged.

"I would rather study for the upcoming end of year exams. As much as I approve of your sudden desire to learn, maybe you should focus on something else."

"Hermione, nooo..."

She gently whapped him on the head.

"At least I'm not some idiot trying to keep a dragon in a wooden hut," he grumbled, and Hermione shook her head in disapproval at the comparison and returned to her book.

* * *

"Mr. Potter! It is well past curfew!"

Booker looked up in surprise as Madam Pince peered down at him with a stern look.

"I-is it?"

"Yes, young man! I'd suggest you get to your dorms immediately. I'll give you a note, if you need it, but you best be off!"

With that, Booker left, quickly making his way towards the dorm.

Suddenly, he spotted Professor Quirrell, presumably on patrol. He reached for the note, only to realize he hadn't stuck around for it, and frowned.

"Mr. P-P-Potter? Is that y-you?" The man seemed ridiculously startled upon seeing him, and Booker almost groaned. How this man ever survived the so-called 'Dark Arts' was ridiculous and probably a fraud.

"Uh, yes, professor," he replied. "I was in the library and lost track of time."

"O-oh dear. Well, b-best be on your way, then," Quirrell stuttered, waving a hand at him.

"Good night, professor," Booker said, and he left, quietly wondering why the professor was wearing a travelling cloak in May.

As he neared the basement, he ran into Professor McGonagall and sighed.

"There's two teachers on patrol?" he asked.

"No, Mr. Potter, but that's hardly any concern of yours... wait, was someone else awake?"

"Yeah, I just ran into Quirrell in a travelling cloak, which was really weird, since it's May. Looked awfully surprised to see me."

"Where did you see him?" the woman demanded. "This is important!"

"I'll take you there," Booker replied nervously.

* * *

"It was here."

McGonagall frowned as she lifted her wand and cast a spell. A silver streak of magic left her wand and set off in the same direction as Quirrell.

"Mr. Potter, this could be very dangerous if my suspicions are correct. I need you to go to Dumbledore's office and warn him that Quirrell is headed to the third floor corridor. Hurry!"

Booker grimaced. He did not want to see that old man right now - he still got a shady vibe from him. Regardless, he took off, going as fast as his little legs could carry him.

Then he found himself in a stand-off with a griffin statue.

"I need to get into Bumblerore's office," Booker said. "It's an emergency."

The statue did nothing.

"McGonagall sent me. Quirrell was being suspicious in the third floor corridor and she may need back up!"

The statue stayed still as stone.

"Do you even care about your staff, old man?"

Again, nothing happened.

With a bitter expression, Booker took off back to where McGonagall was. If Gummylore wasn't going to help, he would!

* * *

Booker showed up on the third floor corridor out of breath and ready to fight. He arrived to an open door and the sound of three snoring dogs, as well as a harp playing quietly in the background.

Peeking his head in, he spotted an open trapdoor at the feet of something out of legends. A three-headed dog lay in the room, happily sleeping to the tune of Gymnopedie No. 1 on harp. Booker only barely remembered that music because Elizabeth had insisted on listening to it many times when they had taken a rest in their quest to get out of Columbia.

He quickly dropped down the trapdoor, tumbled about on a few weird vines, and then fell and landed in a strange underground corridor. Rubbing the small of his back as he got up, he listened for any other people. All he could hear was a faint whisper of wings, like several hummingbirds. He could remember seeing those for the first time, up in Columbia, around those rose bushes and...

Booker shook his head. He was getting caught up in memory at a time he couldn't afford to lose focus.

Follow McGonagall. That was his goal.

Wand at the ready, he entered the next room, astonished at the sight. Never in his life would he have thought of something like _flying keys_.

Three brooms lined the wall, their purpose obvious were it not for the fact that the next door was already open. Still, this was a pretty easy looking puzzle. Whatever was being hidden was obviously not too important.

The next room was a chess board, though the game was completed.

Booker continued onward. There was a knocked out troll on the way to the next puzzle, which he ignored.

In the next room, there was a line of potions, and a piece of paper with a riddle. It seemed that one of the potions was required to cross the line of purple fire.

With a sigh, Booker considered just opening a tear to get through.

He could, really, but there was that little part of him that wanted to be smart that just dared him to solve it.

... He pocketed the riddle, intending on solving it later, and willed a tear open.

* * *

The first thing he saw was McGonagall, lying on the ground, blood pooling beneath her.

Then he saw Quirrell, facing a mirror.

Then he was dodging to the left as a green light went whizzing by him.

"You set me ablaze that night, Potter," the teacher spat at him, no sign of a stutter in his voice. "I should have killed you in your sleep."

"Tough luck, jackass," Booker responded, wand at the ready. He didn't want to reveal all his cards just yet.

"What, no lightning this time?"

"Last time was an accident," he replied. It wasn't at all. Sort of. It's complicated.

"Last time won't be happening! _Avada Kedavra!_ "

Booker rolled out of the way, a plan formulating in his head. He rushed his enemy head on and tackled him into the mirror, breaking the glass.

Seven years bad luck. Damn. His luck was shit as it was.

Then Quirrell was screaming, his skin burning under Booker's touch. He wondered if this was a new vigor or something, and punched the man right across the face, bewildered when Quirrell's jaw disintegrated.

Backing away, he watched as Quirrell slowly turned to dusty pieces, and a wraith rose from the corpse.

"You could have joined me, Harry," the ghostly figure said.

"I'm on no side but my own," Booker replied, and the wraith ran straight at him, going through his chest and leaving a sense of dread and nothing more.

He was a step away from passing out, he could feel it, but he forced himself to stay awake and crawled over to McGonagall.

Ripping open her cloak and dress, he took a look at the wound. He had knowledge of first aid, of course, being in the army and taking care of himself more than a few times. Using the cloth from her cloak, he wrapped the wound and applied pressure, hoping dearly some teacher would arrive soon.

* * *

It was half an hour before Dimplebore arrived, the school nurse and the staff at his heels.

"Mr. Potter! Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, take care of her," he replied, nodding his head towards McGonagall. The nurse immediately came over and began to take care of her.

"Where is Lord Voldemort?" Snape inquired. "Dumbledore said he was here."

"There was only Quirrell. He's dead."

"Dead?" Professor Sprout asked, a look of horror crossing her plump face.

"He tried to kill me, so I retaliated. A wraith of some sort come from his body, though."

"Oh goodness," she cried, coming over to hug Booker. He let her, and with McGonagall safe, he felt the adrenaline leave him and passed out.

* * *

 **i am not happy with this chapter but it needed to be made and published so i could move on with the story (i rly cant wait to write the next years). might revisit it later on.**

 **also, 10.3k views! 178 faves! 229 follows! thats a lot and im so glad that people are enjoying my fic! thank you all so much, and i hope you enjoyed this chapter.**


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: hello and welcome to another chapter of this god forsaken story that is slowly taking over my life. i dont wanna play video games bc i gotta work on this. i dont wanna do schoolwork bc i gotta work on this. i dont wanna eat dinner bc i gotta work on this. its terrible but pretty okay at the same time. dont care enough about myself, but im still getting showers in and stuff so im alright.**

 **this chapter required me to actually look things up (augh). so. that was fun.** **just listened to diveo's 'fever dreams' on repeat. good song. got me through it. thanks to diveo, old science notes, and the internet for helping me through this. if i got anything wrong, let me know.**

 _ **to answer "Guest" who asked if i will be including the lutece twins again:**_

 **yes! they've been shown to love meddling with booker. maybe they have something to do with his current predicament? ;)**

 _ **to answer "ShulkXMelia23" who said that so far im just writing a harry potter fanfic and that booker and harry arent that different:**_

 **i don't quite see your point? this is booker reacting to harry potter's world. he's developing his powers and such. i'm going to include more bioshock stuff later on, but for now there really isnt that much of it because this is still the beginning of the story _._ i hardly have as many chapters as i expect this fic to take. hopefully in later chapters it will show that it's really booker and not harry. harry hardly exists in this fic. hope you aren't turned off of the fic!**

 **hope you all are well, and having an okay 2017 so far!**

 **on with the story!**

* * *

Booker woke up to the glow of sunset and a small hand on his.

He was in the medical wing, Hermione at his side with his hand in hers, Neville seated on his other side. The tall windows were open, letting in a light summer breeze. Then he noticed he was being watched.

Swiveling his head to meet the one intruding on his peace, he narrowed his brow at the sight of the old man.

Dumbledore.

"Harry, my boy."

"I am not your boy," Booker replied. "And it's Potter to you."

With a sigh, Dumbledore restarted. "Mr. Potter, I would like to know what happened last night."

"I was coming back from the library late. Ran into Quirrell. Ran into McGonagall, told her I saw him. She told me to tell you, your gargoyle didn't budge, so I decided to go after her as backup."

"And you didn't consider that you were eleven, and not quite meant to be backup?"

"It's not like I could call for help. Don't know where any of the teachers sleep. Besides, eleven-year-old backup is better than none, and she'd have bled out without me. Only thing I did wrong was accidentally kill the only other witness."

Dumbledore's brow furrowed. "You say that so calmly."

"I got used to the idea that I killed a man at one," Booker replied. He wasn't gonna get a clean slate this lifetime either. "Snape mentioned he was back, now that I think about it. What's that about?"

"It's nothing, my boy. I think you should get back to rest, or Poppy will have my hide for keeping you up."

Grinding his teeth, Booker bit back, "You will give me answers sooner or later. Whether or not I force them from your lips is up to you."

Giving him a curious look, Dumbledore left, and Booker fell into a fitful rest fifteen minutes later.

* * *

He was let out the next day, and after a reunion and recap of the recent events with his friends, he was surprised with the lack of exams the next week. Hermione, of course, was pissed.

"We need these exams! They're highly important for our future, and to just... to just _cancel_ them! Like it's nothing! I can't believe him! He really is a loon!"

They were on the train back to London and she was still ranting about it.

"How am I supposed to get a job like this? No test scores in first year!" She was practically frothing at the mouth in anger.

"Even worse, we didn't get any proper mathematical or literary education," Booker said. He definitely didn't pull those words from a dictionary.

Hermione gasped. "I completely forgot about that! Oh goodness, I have to catch up over summer, this is terrible, I can't believe I forgot, how stupid..."

* * *

The Dursleys were late to pick him up. He'd managed to take a long walk around the area (and get some shopping done!) before they arrived, and the car ride back to Surrey was awkward.

"So, how was, uh, school?" Dudley asked, only to be shushed by his father.

"It was fine," Booker replied, and he was also shushed.

"None of that! None of that nonsense in my car or in my house!"

Petunia sighed in the passenger seat. It was going to be a long ride.

"Dad, he can at least tell me about his classes or something. I want to know!"

"No!"

Dudley's imminent temper tantrum was only stopped by Booker leaning over and whispering, "I'll tell you later." What could he do, Dudley was a kid. He had a soft spot for kids.

When they arrived at the house, Booker was followed upstairs by an eager Dudley and he quickly recounted his encounter with the troll, his friends, and the debacle with Quirrell. He'd left some stuff out, as he didn't want to scare the boy, but it was all the truth.

"So you really have flying broomsticks?"

"Yep."

"And there was a _talking hat?_ "

"Mhm."

"And the food? What was the food like?"

Booker rolled his eyes. Of course. "It was delicious, but nothing interesting. Most of it was the same food you would eat here. There were some interesting candies. I'll bring you some another time, since I don't have any. Now, don't you have summer schoolwork to do? I know I do. Better to get it done now than later, yeah?"

Dudley scuttered out of his room and he locked himself in. He had bought a whole lot of books while waiting for the Dursleys, and he intended on studying them.

 _The Beginner's Guide to Quantum Mechanics_ lay innocently on his bed, unaware of how abused it's spine would be very soon.

* * *

With making breakfast in the morning and the various chores set on him, Booker didn't always have time to study, but after threatening Vernon with a little bit of Devil's Kiss, he finally got a free enough schedule to study the sciences on his own.

It wasn't something he understood perfectly, of course. He was teaching himself, which was more error than trial. At least the Luteces seemed to be lurking, what with the sudden appearance of their book on quantum mechanics, plus another on trans-dimensional travel, appearing on his desk one morning.

A small note had been attached.

 _DeWitt -_

 _Perhaps our books can help aid you in your search for answers. We are, after all, the ones who made tears._

 _\- Lutece_

With a raised brow, Booker pried open the book and began to read, taking notes on anything of interest.

Four hours later, he barely heard the call for dinner, and Petunia, not quite one to care, let him go hungry.

He finally put down the book sometime in the early morning and realized he was starving. He snuck downstairs and made himself a quick sandwich, before returning to his room. Quantum mechanics was some confusing stuff. Better not study on an empty stomach.

After a month of theorizing, barely remembering his basic needs, and hardly leaving his room (to the Dursleys delight), he finally put down his pen.

Quantum mechanics... well, to put it plainly, it explained the average everything. Everything was made of quanta, plural quantum, which was basically the smallest amount of physical entity that was involved in an interaction.

Next, how did tears work? Complicated. The act of a 'tear' is literally tearing apart quantum to see into another world with a similar yet slightly different set of quantum. It could be across the world, it could be two feet away, it could be in a different universe where Booker was in an apocalypse trying to save his psuedo daughter from killing herself to stop a disease.

Now, why couldn't Booker open tears into other worlds? He had always thought he could, but in reality, he could only open tears into worlds that had quantum he knew of. Every tear he opened, it opened out into the past or the present. He didn't have the powers that Elizabeth did - seeing any and all quantum, any and all space and time - and as a result, couldn't open out into quantum from an unknown space or time. It was strictly this universe for him... for now.

If he wanted trans-dimensional travel, he needed to make a tear, the old fashioned way.

* * *

Petunia was... well, to put it plainly, worried. Her nephew, the freak, had hardly left his room in the past month. He left for food, a shower every other day, and the bathroom. He paid them all no mind, and no yelling would get him to pay her attention. Too afraid to provoke him, she left him alone, and convinced Vernon and Dudley to do the same.

Then, finally, the month was over, and he came down, pale from lack of sunlight and graphite on his fingers.

"Harry," she said, too surprised at his appearance to realize she said his name for once.

"Hello," he replied. "I would say sorry about the lack of chores but I think you can handle not having an indentured servant for a while."

She grimaced. "That... that doesn't matter right now. Are you... alright? You hardly left your room!"

He glanced at her, suspicion in his eyes.

"I-I don't want those freaks coming knocking on our door, yelling at us for improper care when you're the one who locked himself up in his room!"

Harry laughed. "Relax. I was studying science. They don't teach it over there, so I needed to catch up a bit."

"S-science?!" No way...

"You want to look at my notes?"

"No, no. I-I'm good. Go on, then. Do what it was you were up to."

"Alright, I'm off to the park to get some sun." And with that, he left, the front door closing behind him with a soft noise.

* * *

Booker spent the next several weeks outside. He had gotten pale and a little weak with the lack of sunlight, and helped his aunt with the garden, earning him less chores.

He also finished up his homework for Hogwarts, and grabbed some math textbooks from the nearby library. Science had a lot of math in it as far as he could tell, and he figured it would be better to be prepared.

He was so busy with studying that he hardly noticed the lack of letters from his friends until a strange creature dressed in what looked like a pillow sack suddenly appeared in his bedroom.

"Uh, hello?" the veteran asked rather than said, completely confused. What fresh hell was this?

"Harry Potter!" It had a high-pitched voice that grated on his ears. "So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir... Such an honor it is... "

Suddenly he remembered Vernon's get-together or whatever happening downstairs and the man's promise of pain if anything went wrong. "Th-that's great. Please be quiet or I'll have to kick you out. My family is having an important meeting."

"O-oh! Of course, Mr. Potter, sir," the creature replied, lowering it's volume to almost a whisper.

"Now then, let's have a seat. Who are you, what are you, and why are you in my house?"

Not taking a seat, the creature replied, "Dobby, Dobby the house-elf, be coming here to tell you... where to begin..."

"At the beginning would be great, and please, take a seat."

Giving him the biggest doe eyes, Dobby suddenly burst into noisy tears.

"Shh! The meeting!"

Dobby hiccuped, but stopped his loud sobbing. "Dobby has never been asked to sit," he said between small sobs "Mr. Potter has treated Dobby like an equal... offering him a seat!"

"Uh." Booker put a small hand on Dobby's shoulder. "I hope I didn't offend you. You don't have to sit if you don't want to."

"Offend Dobby? Oh Merlin no, Mr. Potter sir has done nothing of the sort..."

Then suddenly Dobby was banging his head on the window, shouting, "Bad Dobby!"

Booker grabbed him by the nape and pulled him away. "Quiet!" he hissed. "Do you have any idea what my family will do to me if there's too much noise?"

Dobby suddenly burst into tears. "Dobby is being most sorry, sir!"

"Besides, it's got to hurt to do that, yeah? Take it easy."

"Dobby must be punishing himself, sir. He almost spoke ill of his family."

Booker frowned. "Your family?"

"The family Dobby serves. Oh, Mr. Potter called Dobby a guest, goodness!" He almost burst into tears again.

"Dobby, listen. I have no idea what's going on. Why did you come here?"

Dobby gulped. "Dobby is here to warn Mr. Potter of a terrible plot. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year. Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!"

With a grimace, Booker replied, "Yeah. No can do, pal. Where else am I going to learn to control my magic?"

Dobby frowned. "Mr. Potter would go back even when his friends don't even write?"

"... and how do you know about that?"

"Dobby thought..." The house-elf shrunk under Booker's gaze. "Dobby thought that if Mr. Potter received no letters, he would not want to go back to Hogwarts!"

"Well, toss that out of the window. If you can convince me then I'll write the headmaster and he'll handle things."

"Dumbledore is being the greatest wizard of all time, but even he would not know of this... no decent wizard would know of this magic..."

"Then let me go to the school so I can help the other students. Whatever comes my way, I can handle it."

"No!" Dobby wailed, and Booker clamped a hand over the creature's mouth desperate for quiet.

"Listen. I'll let you in on a secret, okay?"

Dobby nodded, eager to hear.

"I'm immortal." No he wasn't, but Dobby didn't need to know that. "That's how I survived the Killing Curse. And whatever is coming this way, I can stop it. Got it?"

With awe, Dobby stepped away. "Mr. Potter is being incredible, sir! Dobby never would have guessed it."

"Thank you, but Dobby, what's more important is that you tell me this plot so I can see it coming."

Gasping, Dobby shook his head. "No! Dobby couldn't, he would get the cane for it, not the cane-!"

Booker felt a pang of guilt. "I won't force you, Dobby. But if something important is happening and you can give me information, please. Send me a message. Only you can help me with this."

Dobby, in true awe, nodded.

"Now, who do you work for, Dobby?"

"The Malfoys, sir. Dobby be working for the Malfoys."

"One last thing before you go?"

"Anything, Mr. Potter, sir."

"Give me my letters, and _don't_ punish yourself for anything that happened tonight."

With a bow and pop, Dobby was away, and fourteen neatly stacked letters appeared on Booker's desk.

* * *

 _Dear Hermione,_

 _Sorry for not responding to your letters. I do believe I've been pranked. Some house-elf appeared in my house and told me not to return to Hogwarts._

 _He's been stealing my letters for weeks now and tonight told me that a 'terrible plot' was going to happen and that I should not return. I told him I was immortal and that I could handle it (I can just imagine you rolling your eyes at that, but it worked)._

 _He works for the Malfoys, apparently._

 _I'll send a second letter answering all your other letters in a bit - I need to let this whole evening sink in._

 _\- Harry_

* * *

When it finally came time to go get books, Booker arranged with Neville and Hermione to meet at the Leaky Cauldron and they set off together to get their books, leaving behind Hermione's parents and Neville's grandmother to get along.

"First stop, bookstore," Booker announced.

"The only things on the list were books. What's the second stop?" Neville asked.

"Ice cream, of course."

"Oh," Neville replied, nodding in understanding.

And they set off to get their books.

"Whoever our teacher is this year really likes an author by the name of Gilderoy Lockhart," Hermione said. "I actually already have the books, read them all last year, and I found out that there's actually a lot of contradictory information in it."

"Wh-what are you implying?" Neville asked.

"I'm saying he might be a fraud."

A woman off to their left gasped. "A fraud?"

"Yes! He says he's in Transylvania for three months to deal with a banshee in early 1974, but is apparently in the Americas for two months during that duration when dealing with a ghoul!"

The woman frowned. "I will have to reread his books for myself. I would stay and chat but I really must go. Might I know your name?"

"Granger. Hermione Granger."

"I'm Narcissa Malfoy, and I do believe that I will be investigating this."

And the woman walked off into the alley, oblivious to to the jaws that dropped behind her.

"Holy shit. That's Malfoy's _mother_?"

"Language, Harry!"

"She seems... different from her son."

"Definitely."

After a few more moments of silence, Booker shook his head. "Let's just go get our books."

They arrived at Flourish and Blott's without any other interruptions to find that the one and only Gilderoy Lockhart was there, signing books and giving cheeky winks to any witch in the perimeters.

Hermione did her best to hide a blush.

Booker groaned.

"Yes of course, and if you have any questions, feel free to refer to my books - they're all on sale the rest of the summer!" The man was waving and laughing and flashing a brilliant smile when his eyes fell on Booker.

"Merlin's beard, is that Harry Potter?"

There was a collective gasp and many whispers of his name.

Then he was swarmed by witches, begging for an autograph, a photograph, a kiss, and he was overwhelmed.

"Ladies, ladies, let the lad take a breather," a smooth voice rang out, and the crowd of witches backed away.

Looking up in horror, Booker was face to face with Gilderoy Lockhart.

"Well, if it isn't the Boy Who Lived," the man said, smoothing back a stray hair and offering his hand to shake. "I'd introduce myself, but you already know me, of course."

"Unfortunately," Booker muttered under his breath, and begrudgingly took the man's hand and shook it as firmly as he could. Lockhart winced, and Booker smirked.

"Here for my autograph, young man?" he asked, giving a bright and well-faked smile.

"Nope. Just getting some books. For school."

"You'll be needing my books for the curriculum, aren't you!"

"Uh. Yes-"

"Here you go! On the house, all signed by me."

A large stack of books was dropped rather unceremoniously in Booker's arms, and he struggled not to drop them on the celebrity's feet.

"Thanks," he grit out. "A lot."

* * *

After the spectacle with the possible fraud, Neville's books were bought and the trio were on their way out the door when a standoff began.

"... what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?" a blond man was saying to a family of redheads. Among them was several familiar peers from Gryffindor, including that boy who made fun of Hermione. Roy? Ron? Draco Malfoy was there too, so the man was presumably his father.

Deciding not to do anything about their weird standoff, he led the way past the groups, only stopping when Malfoy the kid said, "If it isn't the mudblood and her blood traitor protectors. Can't go anywhere without your boyfriends, can you?"

Booker ground his teeth to bite back the inappropriate insult resting on the tip of his tongue.

"Hold my books, Hermione," he said. "I have to make Malfoy swallow his teeth."

Taking his books, she gave him a doubtful look, which dropped when he rolled up his sleeves and cracked his knuckles.

"Are you about to beat my son?" Malfoy senior asked, his former standoff forgotten.

"Yes. Yes I am."

Booker was a good four inches taller than Draco, and he was getting the same natural brawn he had in his last life, even if it didn't show very well. He wasn't working out yet so he wasn't a monster, but in a physical fight, he would win.

"And why would that be? For speaking the truth?"

"If that's the truth then you admit your son is a piece of-"

"Harry! Language!"

"... work. Piece of work."

Hermione gave him a Look, and he shrugged.

"I don't believe you're aware of this, being muggle-raised, but our family is of the highest regard."

"With a name like 'Malfoy', I really doubt that," Booker replied. "In French, your name means 'bad faith'. Untrustworthy sort, ain't ya?"

The blond has no response.

"Good day, sir."

And with that, they left.

"Harry?" Neville asked, "where did you learn French?"

In a city under the sea, to speak to a lonely young child. In World War I, to communicate with soldiers and citizens alike.

"Not a damn clue," was his reply.

"Language, Harry."

* * *

 **AN: welp. its official. i love writing this fic too much to play league of legends.**


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: hey there, Warwickluver654 here (im joking but the new warwick is amazing) but enough about me...**

 **we reached over 50 reviews! woo hoo! i couldn't have done it without any of you wonderful reviewers! and those two hate reviews. lol.**

 **i would love to answer all my wonderful reviewers and their questions but i don't wanna spoil the story! i can only say that if time doesn't tell, i'll answer it for you personally, and thats a promise!**

 **also lmao, all u ppl judging me for playing league of legends. yeah. i hate myself for playing league of legends. but hey, at least heartseeker lucian looks like a great skin! can't wait to waste my money on it :^) jk i dont play lucian**

 **in fact the main reason i love league of legends is because of the incredible lore. don't play the game, it sucks, but read up the lore! it's really amazing!**

 **finally, i made a cover with my less than stellar art skills! lemme know what you think! it shows things that will come into play later on ;)**

 **now, on with the story!**

* * *

The train ride was, unlike the year before, somewhat enchanting.

The views expanding towards the horizon held Booker's attention more than last year - he had been asleep, so he hardly noticed a thing. This year, he had Hermione and Neville with him, the two of them discussing more of Lockhart's credibility gap.

"It's so interesting. Every time he begins the draft for a new book, someone pops up in St. Mungo's with memory issues. Strange trend," Neville was saying. "My grandmother told me she found that in the Quibbler, and they've been insisting he's a fraud for years now."

"That is rather strange..." Hermione's hand rubbed against her chin, giving her a slight detective look. "It's like a conspiracy..."

"There's a lot of rumors about him, but it can be confirmed that he was given an official Obliviation license, that he hasn't used... apparently."

Hermione frowned. "This is getting curiouser and curiouser."

"That's not a word," Booker pitched in with a grin.

"Shush. We're being detectives."

"Aren't you more like investigative journalists?"

"Shush! Now Neville, tell me more about these rumors."

* * *

There wasn't much different at the Beginning of the Year Feast, besides the fact that Booker and company were seated at the tables with the elder years and not being sorted.

It was a little funny to see how all the little first years waltzed in with the grace of a gaggle of geese, tripping over robes and each other, the most frightened looks on their faces. What did they expect to happen, wrestle a troll? Booker grimaced at the gory image that came to mind. No, that would not go well.

The sorting and feast went on with little to no interruptions, and Booker tuned out anything Dumbledore said.

When he got to the dorms with the rest of the Hufflepuffs, he easily flopped into his bed with a sigh of relief.

No matter what came his way, it was good to be back.

* * *

Classes started up regularly, and the school year was, in all, normal, confirming Booker's thought that Bo... uh... the house-elf thing's warning was just a prank. He was tempted to confront little Malfoy about it, but he knew that would be letting it get to him, so he pretended nothing was going on.

There was also a matter of him gaining a stalker, some first year with a camera. He ignored the kid so heavily the little tyke thought he was deaf.

Gilderoy Lockhart had no idea what he was doing, obviously, but Booker made no comment. It was hilarious to watch the man flounder his way around the classroom, then flash a brilliant smile and hear the many sighs of most of the female students, and some of the male students. The students were, for the most part, wrapped around the man's pinky. At some point the man tried to talk to Booker again, but each time Booker managed to squeeze out an excuse and duck away.

Things seemed to be going okay. Professor Sprout brought out the ugliest fucking plants Booker had ever seen, but other things were good.

Then, about a month into the school year, the crowds of students herded to one of the halls, and Booker, not wanting to get lost again, followed them.

"Look! It's Filch's cat!" one of the students shouted, pointing at what everyone was already staring at in horror.

Indeed it was the famed Mrs. Norris, hung by the tail from one of the many lamps along the hallway. Next to her, on the wall, was a sinister message.

 _ **THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.**_

 _ **ENEMIES OF THE HEIR BEWARE.**_

"Enemies of the heir, beware!" Malfoy said with a shrill laugh. "Ha! You'll be next, mudbloods!" He sent a particularly nasty look to Booker and Hermione, and instinctively, the veteran shoved his friend behind him. She squeaked indignantly, but made no move to go back to the harsh glare of the young Slytherin.

Something in Booker's stomach stirred. He had no idea what this all meant, but this was either a rather serious prank... or not a prank at all.

* * *

Hermione launched a campaign to search for the Chamber of Secrets in the library.

It took her three days to give up.

"I can't believe this," she said, slouching in her chair. "Nothing in here about the Chamber of Secrets! Nothing! I even asked the Ravenclaws and they found even less than I did?"

Neville frowned. "Wouldn't that mean they found negative information on the-"

"You know what I mean, Neville!"

The boy chuckled. "I know, 'Mione. Just teasing."

"I'm just... scared," she admitted with a sigh. "You heard what Malfoy said. What does this mean? What does this mean for me, for other muggleborns?"

Booker remembered the cruel comment Malfoy had made. "I was meaning to ask you. What does 'mudblood' mean?"

Surprisingly, Neville answered. "It's a derogatory term, towards anyone of muggle descent. It implies that their blood is 'dirty' compared to purely magical people, known as 'purebloods'."

With a snarl, Booker stood. "I oughta give that kid a knuckle sandwich for that-"

"Harry, no," Hermione insisted. "You'll get in trouble."

Neville nodded in agreement.

Sighing, he sat down. "He does it again, or makes any sort of move on to you, I get one punch in. One."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Fine, Harry."

* * *

Neville was a true charm. Hermione had been practically ripping her hair out over the lack of information on the Chamber of Secrets when the round boy piped up.

"Why not ask some of the ghosts?" the boy suggested innocently. "They've been around for loads of years, I'm sure one or two of them have _something_ to tell you."

And thus, instead of spending the weekend on homework like they normally would, Hermione dragged them around to ask all the ghosts questions, and it didn't stop there. Locating all the ghosts took far longer than expected, and soon the beginnings of winter was one them.

With the help of the many spirits lingering the halls of the castle, they managed to piece together a sinister story.

"We know who did it."

"A Slytherin boy. Snake in the grass, that one."

"Cunning beyond anything anyone could imagine. Truly a merit to his house."

"I had trusted him... I thought death would dull the pain of life, of betrayal, but its keen sting is still as sharp as ever."

"Killed a girl in the first-floor bathroom, the mudblood ghost."

"He was the Heir. Controlled the monster, but I never saw it. Anyone who did, well. I'm sure that's obvious."

"It was a pair of large, yellow eyes..."

"I saw it. It traveled by the pipes. A huge snake, longer than the Great Hall back and forth. I may be dead, but I was still afraid."

"... and then poof! I was dead."

* * *

"We need to go to Dumbledore with this information."

The trio were seated in the library once more, a notepad filled to the brink with the interviews of the ghosts sitting in front of them.

"I don't know, Hermione," Booker replied. "I don't trust that guy. Something about him..."

"I know you have a problem with authority, but this is the only person that could actually _do_ something!" Hermione yelled, and immediately she was shushed by Madam Pince.

Wincing, the girl whispered, "Sorry, Madam Pince, but this whole Chamber of Secrets debacle..."

The woman's expression softened. "I understand dear, but remember to keep your voice down."

With a nod, Hermione returned to the conversation. "Harry, this is important. We _have_ to tell him, and if he doesn't do anything, then..."

"Then what?" the veteran asked.

"Then we deal with it ourselves."

* * *

"Hello, Ms. Granger, Mr. Longbottom, Mr. Potter. I understand you wished to see me. Lemon drop?"

Dumbledore's office was loud, both in style and noise. There were many trinkets and toys that rolled around and twirled and circled the room. A perch for a bird of prey stood beside the desk, a pile of ashes beneath it.

"No thank you, Headmaster," Hermione replied politely. "The three of us have acquired some important information regarding the Chamber of Secrets."

She placed the worn-out notepad on his desk, and the elderly man gently picked it up and leafed through it, his brow furrowing gently.

"How did you come by this information, my dear?"

Booker snarled. "Don't you call her that you creep-"

Hermione put a hand up to silence him. "We interviewed the many ghosts in the halls. It took a while, but we managed to get it all."

"This is most important, thank you very much for this..." Dumbledore trailed off. "Someone is at my door. I fear it is urgent. Children, head on back to your dormitories, it's getting late."

As they left the room, they heard the words, "... Creevey has been petrified..."

"Creevey? Isn't that your stalker, Harry?"

Butterflies flew around Booker's stomach in worry, and he got very little rest that night.

* * *

 **AN: every time i take a break from writing its to get food/water, use the restroom, watch the NA LCS, or hang out with my cat for like 5 min ;_; im so lonely, tfw no bf**

 **this chapter is a little short, sorry about that. i'm gonna try to make the next one longer.**

 **anywho, i hope you all liked this chapter!**


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: wow. quick updates huh? y'all are lucky im in a writing mood. i guess its pent up anxiety from recent events and school and stuff.**

 **as of now, we have over 50 reviews, over 300 follows, and almost 250 faves! thank you all so much!**

 **and to reply to Lassy D: i'm doing my best! i keep in contact with friends and family a lot, don't worry! im just desperate. its been a while since i dated and im getting antsy. maybe when i hit college?**

 **im also ahead in chapters! im up to chapter 12 as i write this, so expect sooner updates!**

 **also, changed the categories for this story to supernatural/sci-fi**

 **also, i decided to change the summary of the story. lemme know what you think?**

 **WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER THERE IS NON-GRAPHIC AND FOR THE MOST PART MENTIONED SEXUAL ASSAULT ON A MINOR. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.**

* * *

A dueling club.

Huh.

"This sounds like an important opportunity, boys!" Hermione, ever excited over the prospect of learning, waved the flyer excitedly in his face.

"It says it's being taught by Lockhart though," he replied.

"And Professor Snape! Professor Snape fought in the last wizarding war, he has to know _something!_ "

"Oh. Well, in that case, why not?"

* * *

This was all seven layers of hell put together.

Lockhart, in a beautiful blue cape that went all to wonderfully with his hair and eyes and an equally terrible hat, stood atop a table, loudly pronouncing the start of the Dueling Club.

"Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!"

The man twirled his ridiculous cape a little before announcing, "Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little dueling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions — for full details, see my published works.

"Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape," he swept his hand to the side to show the hook-nosed man. "He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about dueling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don't want any of you youngsters to worry — you'll still have your Potions master when I'm through with him, never fear!"

"Oh, good," someone whispered sarcastically to Booker's left, and he snorted in agreement.

"As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position," Lockhart told the silent crowd. "On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course."

Booker raised an eyebrow at that. With a facial expression like Snape's you would think Lockhart had killed his pet snake or something.

"One, two, three —"

" _Expelliarmus!_ "

Snape's spelled rippled through the air with a red streak of light, sending Lockhart flying off his stage and against the wall across the room. He slid to the floor painfully, and Booker almost felt a small amount of pity. Almost.

"Well, there you have it!" the fraud managed to say as he stood and returned to the platform. "That was a Disarming Charm - as you see, I've lost my wand - ah, thank you, Miss Brown - yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don't mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy - however, I felt it would be instructive to let them see..."

Snape sent a look best described as 'oh really' the way of the blond man.

Ignoring him, Lockhart shouted, "Enough demonstrating! I'm going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you'd like to help me..."

Booker went to go with Neville when the boy was suddenly pulled away by Snape's hand on his shoulder.

"Time to split up the dream team, I think," he sneered. "Longbottom, you can partner Finnigan. Potter -" Booker moved to take Hermione's hand.

"I don't think so," Snape snapped. "Mr. Malfoy, come over here. Let's see what you make of the famous Potter. And you, Miss Granger, you can partner with Miss Bulstrode."

Malfoy, doing his best to hide a smirk and obviously failing, sauntered over.

"Face your partners!" called Lockhart, back on the platform. "And bow!"

They faced each other, and barely inclined their heads. Booker didn't trust the kid to not hit him while his head was bowed, and the kid probably felt no respect to him.

Mutual feelings, it would seem.

"Wands at the ready!" shouted Lockhart. "When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponents - only to disarm them, we don't want any accidents - one... two... three -"

Malfoy cast at two, but Booker was quicker, and a quick _Expelliarmus_ sent the boy's wand flying. Bewildered, the blond kid watched it fly away and sent a glare Booker's way.

"Dirty play, Potter," the kid spat.

"You cast at two, kid." Booker was tempted to spit at the kid's feet, but it wasn't to that level... yet. "I reacted, hell of a lot better than you."

Picking up his wand, Malfoy sneakily sent a spell Booker's way. " _Serpensortia!_ "

A large black snake erupted from the tip of the boy's wand, and everyone backed away at the sight of the snake.

Immediately, Booker slammed his foot down on the head of the snake, hearing a sickening crunch.

Malfoy looked at him, horrified.

"What did you expect?" he asked, his arms raised in question.

"Potter!" Snape barked from across the room, striding over with controlled rage.

"What? I didn't _do_ anything!"

Snape, unable to come up with an excuse for Booker to be in trouble, took Malfoy by the arm, and they left the Great Hall.

"Well, that, uh..." Lockhart tried to diffuse the tension, to no avail. "Let's all return to our dorms, why don't we? It's getting late."

* * *

"That was _useless_ ," Hermione complained the second they got out of there. "Bulstrode had me in a headlock the whole time and I'm pretty sure someone was set on fire."

"At least we learned a disarming spell, but it's not much," Neville commented. "And it was my partner that was set on fire. Temporarily, of course."

"Of course. I think this has really confirmed in my mind that Lockhart really has no idea what he's doing. Why on earth would he _take_ this job?"

Booker paused in his walking.

He heard a voice, speaking. No, two voices.

"You alright, Harry?"

"Shhh."

In a room over, he spotted Malfoy and Snape. Malfoy looked particularly distraught, and he felt a pang of guilt. He had been worried about the snake biting someone so he took care of it. Maybe it was the kid's pet snake or something? He'd buy him a new one.

"Harry, this really isn't any of our business," Hermione whispered, tugging at his sleeve. "Let's go."

And they did, but Booker couldn't help but overhear the end of the conversation.

"... anyone touched you inappropriately? Draco?"

* * *

Justin Finch-Fletchley was found petrified a day after the Dueling Club's first meeting, and many houses were pointing fingers at one another, but mostly as Slytherin, of course.

Among their year, rumor had it that Draco Malfoy was the Heir, and something told him that would lift the boy's mood.

It didn't, oddly enough. He looked just as distraught as before.

Something about this smelled disturbing.

Deciding to take matters into his own hands, he walked over to the Slytherin table, ignoring the incredulous looks headed his way.

"Malfoy, can we talk?" he asked.

"What do you want, Potter?" the boy asked harshly. His two large 'bodyguards' stood, ready to defend him.

"Just wanted to apologize for yesterday. You seemed a bit upset about the snake and-"

"I don't care about the damn snake, Potter! Go away!"

Frowning, Booker asked, "You okay, kid?"

"Go! Away!"

"What is going on here?" Professor McGonagall asked, arriving at the scene.

"Nothing much," Booker replied, deciding to make his leave.

Yeah, something was going on.

* * *

"I'm worried," Hermione said, as the trio sat at their regular table in the library. "Dumbledore has done _nothing_ to stop the attacks. We provided him with enough information to determine the beast - it's a basilisk by the way - and he hasn't closed out the school or brought in a specialist or alerted magical authorities or _anything!_ "

With a great sigh, she threw up her arms and groaned as quietly as possible.

"Should we contact the police about this?" Booker asked, before stopping himself. "Wait. How would we contact the police? It's not like there's any phones or anything to just call them."

"Probably by owl," Neville replied. "But I doubt the DMLE will listen to a few second-years."

"The DMLE?"

"Department for Magical Law Enforcement."

"Oh." It hadn't occured to Booker that there was magical police. Now that he thought about it, it made a lot of sense.

"Ugh! Neville's right, they wouldn't listen to a couple of kids, would they?"

"I don't know about that, Hermione," Booker said. "There's no point in not trying, is there?" He'd been a police officer at one point... hadn't he? He tried not to think about it. Sometimes his past became a muddle.

The young girl gave him a pensive look, before pulling out a piece of parchment and began writing a letter.

* * *

 _Dear Madame Bones,_

 _My name is Hermione Granger. I am a muggleborn student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and I don't feel safe. Recently, two students have been petrified and a message saying that the Salazar Slytherin's fabled Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Dumbledore has done nothing, as far as we know._

 _Please, if you can do anything, do it. Attached is a notepad filled with any information on the Chamber of Secrets._

 _Regards,_

 _Hermione Granger_

* * *

Two weeks passed. No response, not even while they were on break. Hermione had opted to stay, fearing that her friends would get hurt without her there, even though Booker insisted she go back. She refused, saying that he would end up hurt or worse without her around to protect them.

Understanding the panic she was feeling, and being unable to go anywhere, he agreed to her terms.

The castle atmosphere was tense. No one knew what was causing the petrifications. No one knew who the Heir of Slytherin was. No one in power was doing _anything_. Worse, Booker realized that what he had thought had been his subconscious murder intent was actually a voice in the walls, and he grew worried.

At least Christmas was nice. Hermione got him a luxury eagle feather quill, and Neville gave him a special brew of tea from his home garden meant to simulate coffee.

Booker himself got Hermione a new bookmark as he knew her old one was wearing out, and got Neville a book on the importance of herbology in other subjects.

The feast in the Great Hall was grand, delicious foods lining the area, and it reminded him to get some candies for his cousin. No matter how rotten that kid was, it wasn't Dudley's fault - that went to the parents. Maybe with some subtle directions, he could send the kid on a different path.

At one point, when on their way to the library to start their holiday homework, Hermione stopped by Myrtle's bathroom.

"Look. Someone set off all the sinks in Myrtle's bathroom again."

"Again?" Booker asked. Weird prank.

"It's probably Myrtle herself," Hermione replied. "She does it when she's upset. Let's go see what's wrong."

Booker knew Hermione saw herself in Moaning Myrtle - a know-it-all muggleborn who didn't think the highest of herself. He just hoped it didn't result in requiring an exorcist, or worse, Hermione ending up the same way Myrtle did.

Entering the bathroom carefully, Hermione called out, "Myrtle? Something wrong?"

They could hear her crying loudly, only stopping to ask, "Who's that? Come to throw something else at me?"

"Why would we throw something at you?" Neville asked, concern coloring his voice.

"Don't ask me. Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me..."

"Well that's just rude," Booker said. "Alive or not, throwing a book at someone isn't exactly nice."

Myrtle, suddenly noticing the presence of the Boy-Who-Lived, blushed a deep blue.

"Oh, you're very sweet, Mr. Harry Potter," she giggled, her tears forgotten.

"You didn't happen to see where the book went, did you Myrtle? Maybe we can find the owner and give them a firm talking to." He was a little bit disturbed by the ghost, even if he felt sympathetic for her.

She pointed off into one of the puddles, and they quickly picked it up.

It was owned by a T. M. Riddle.

"T. M. Riddle? Who the hell is that?" Booker asked no one in particular, but with a gasp, Myrtle flew at them.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle!" She looked particularly huffed. "I went to school with him! He hated me! That snake, torturing me even in the afterlife!"

Booker quietly thought this didn't count as the afterlife but kept his mouth shut.

"Why is his diary here then? He must be like, sixty by now," Neville asked. "Not to call you old, Myrtle, just saying it's been quite a few decades."

She hmphed in response.

Quickly thumbing through the book, Booker raised a brow. "Strange. He never wrote in it."

"Or maybe it's invisible ink," Hermione said enthusiastically, her fingers itching to grab the book. "Or maybe it's enchanted! Or, or!"

With a sigh, Booker and Neville bid farewell to Myrtle and headed to their normal table in the library, Hermione behind them, excitement waving off her at the idea of a new book.

* * *

" _Aparecium!_ " Hermione cast at the book gently, not wanting to damage it in it's already wet state.

Nothing appeared inside.

She pulled out a large red eraser, which she called a revealer, and erased at it.

Still nothing.

"I don't have any _other_ ideas," she complained quietly. Madam Pince had given them the deadeye for bringing in a wet book. Booker could feel high noon approaching already. To see themm casting spells at a book well... that would not end well.

"Maybe we should write in it," Neville suggested. "Just to see what happens."

"I don't know," Hermione replied. "It might ruin it..."

Booker shrugged. "It's worth a shot. No point in not trying."

With a sigh, she pulled out a quick and inkpot and opened to the first page.

She dipped her quill in the ink and wrote.

 _Hello_

The ink sank into the paper, and after a few moments, a reply, of all things, came up.

 _Hello. Who is this?_

"Should we say who we are?"

"No. Just put, uh, Robert."

 _My name is Robert. Who are you?_

 _My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?_

"Okay," Neville said, backing away, "that's not normal."

"Even by magical standards?"

"Even by magical standards."

 _Someone tried to flush it down a toilet._

 _Lucky that I recorded my memories in some more lasting way than ink. But I always knew that there would be those who would not want this diary read._

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'll ask, gimme a second."

 _What do you mean?_

 _I mean that this diary holds memories of terrible things. Things that were covered up. Things that happened at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

"This doesn't feel right, guys," Neville said nervously.

"I want to know more, though," Hermione said. "He might know about the Chamber of Secrets! If he went to school with Moaning Myrtle, he must have been around for it to happen!"

 _Do you mean the Chamber of Secrets?_

 _Yes. In my day, they told us it was a legend, that it did not exist. But this was a lie. In my fifth year, the Chamber was opened and the monster attacked several students, finally killing one. I caught the person who'd opened the Chamber and he was expelled. But the headmaster, Professor Dippet, ashamed that such a thing had happened at Hogwarts, forbade me to tell the truth. A story was given out that the girl had died in a freak accident. They gave me a nice, shiny, engraved trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep my mouth shut. But I knew it could happen again. The monster lived on, and the one who had the power to release it was not imprisoned._

 _It's happening again. There have been three attacks and Professor Dumbledore does nothing. The DMLE doesn't respond. What can you tell us about this monster?_

 _I can show you, if you like. You don't have to take my word for it. I can take you inside my memory of the night when I caught him._

"This doesn't sound good."

"Hermione-"

Suddenly a light sprung from the book, and Hermione had disappeared.

"... holy shit."

Then, a few moments later, she reappeared, her breath shallow and a look of disturbance on her face.

"The book is lying," she said after a shaky breath.

* * *

Neville and Booker agreed heavily that Hermione needed to see Madam Pomfrey immediately after she emerged from the book. She insisted she was alright all the way over there, and after the medi-witch confirmed rather confusedly that the girl was alright, just a bit dehydrated, she huffed angrily.

"I told you!"

"We were just worried!"

"Yeah!"

Booker gave her his best puppy eyes, but they were beat out by Neville's.

"Oh... bugger! I can't stay mad at either of you for too long. And Harry, your puppy dog eyes are terrible."

"Just like me," he joked.

Hermione rolled her eyes, and began to tell the boys of what she saw in the diary.

"Riddle... I think Riddle knew who it was, but framed Hagrid, the groundskeeper for it to keep the real culprit safe."

"Hagrid? Who's that?" Booker asked.

"The man who lives in the hut near the forest," Neville replied. "He's rather nice. Invites me in for tea all the time. Makes good rock cakes."

"Rock cakes?"

"Nevermind that, he said the monster is an Acromantula, which it absolutely isn't, because Acromantula's are actually rather peaceful unless attacked, and they can't petrify people! The diary is lying. Tom Riddle, or whatever is in this book, is lying."

* * *

With no idea on what to do next, the trio decided to ask Hagrid about his version of the events.

It was a cold day, nearing the end of February, and Booker was bundled up in the scarf Neville had gotten for him the year before.

The boy was tickled pink to see that.

Booker knocked on the door when they got there.

"Hello, uh, Hagrid, yes?"

"Hello Harry, Neville. Don't believe I know your name, miss."

"Hermione Granger, Mr. Hagrid. Pleased to meet you."

"How might I be helpin' ya today, kids?"

"We wanted to ask you some questions," Hermione stated. "About the Chamber of Secrets."

The man's cheery disposition dropped.

Immediately, Hermione launched into an apology. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it like that! We know you didn't do it, Hagrid, and whatever monster you were caring for couldn't have killed Moaning Myrtle. We just want to know if you know anything."

Expression softening, the oversized man opened the door and beckoned them in.

"Might as well chat about it over tea."

He served them tea in three very large cups and a stack of the supposed rock cakes were set before them.

Neville set into them immediately.

"There really isn't much to say, to be honest with ya," Hagrid admitted. "Someone unleashed a beast, several people were petrified, and Myrtle was killed. I liked that girl. She and I weren't friends, but we agreed not to make fun of each other."

"I'm sorry for you loss, Hagrid, even if you can still go see her," Hermione said.

"Thank you, Hermione. Anyways, some prefect, Tom Riddle, blamed me an' Aragog, my Acromantula for it, and the Ministry, wanted to be seen as doing something, snapped me wand and expelled me!"

Hermione gasped, and Booker felt a pang of sympathy.

"Aragog never hurt nobody," Hagrid continued. "He's my best friend, still alive to this day. He lives in the forest now, got himself a colony. I would tell you to visit him but he's suspicious of anyone that isn't me these days."

"Understandable," Booker replied. "Do you know what happened to Tom Riddle?"

"No. He pretty much disappeared after he graduated. Why?"

Hermione looked like she wanted to answer, but Booker lightly kicked her shin, and she thought better of it.

"We were just wondering. Maybe he could've answered some of our questions."

"Well, alright. Wait. Who escorted you down here?"

They looked at each other grimly. Right. No one was allowed anywhere without a teacher guiding them.

"You little rascals! I'll walk you up the castle, alright?"

* * *

Hermione was designated to keep the diary, as she was the least likely to be questioned for having a book.

Naturally, Booker's luck extended to those around him, and two days later the book was missing.

"What happened?" Neville asked, fear starting to inch onto his face.

"It means that a Gryffindor stole it, which means someone else in our house knows about the Chamber of Secrets!"

"To the library to deduce who it might be?"

"To the library to deduce who it might be!"

They were just outside the library when Booker heard the voice.

The one he had thought was his subconscious.

 _"Kill..."_

"Guys-"

"Did you hear a slithering?" Hermione asked and Booker heard it too.

Shit.

"Yeah, I heard it," Neville replied, and Booker saw Hermione slide a mirror out of her pocket.

Right. Indirect eye contact results in petrification, which is curable. Direct eye contact results in death, which is not.

Booker closed his eyes, and waited.

"Guys?" he asked after a few minutes. The voice was still speaking, so he kept his eyes shut. He had heard it all those other times the petrifications had happened, why hadn't he noticed it sooner?

The basilisk was talking... the basilisk was a snake... Booker could talk to snakes...

God, what a fool he was!

 _"Kill them... tear them..."_

"No," he whispered back. "Go home."

 _"Speaker requests it... I go..."_

Not willing to open his eyes, Booker waited, and waited, and waited.

"Mr. Potter!"

McGonagall!

"Is it gone?" he asked. "Is the basilisk gone?"

"What 'basilisk'?" she asked, confused.

"That's the monster in the Chamber of Secrets," he replied angrily. "Indirect eye contact results in petrification, direct eye contact results in death. So far no one has seen it directly, yeah?"

"Wh-what?"

"Just tell me, is it gone?"

"Yes!"

He opened his eyes, and Hermione and Neville were frozen in place.

* * *

"... Filch's cat saw it through the large puddle of water that was on the floor that night. Colin Creevey saw it through the camera. Justin Finch-Fletchley saw it through Nearly Headless Nick, Hermione and Neville saw it through the mirror. The rooster's call is fatal, that's why Hagrid's were all killed-"

"I get it, Mr. Potter. I understand."

Booker slammed his fist down on Dumbledore's desk. "Then where's the fuckin' police involvement, huh?! Where's the DMLE?! Where's the evacuation, the protection, anything to show that you give a shit about your students' safety!"

"Mr. Potter!" McGonagall said off to the side. "Language!"

"No!" he replied vehemently. "This old piece of shit has done _nothing_ to protect the students. What the hell is a teacher gonna do against a forty-foot snake that can kill with it's gaze?!"

At a loss for words, the woman backed down.

Then Professor Flitwick burst into the room with a terrible announcement.

"Ginny Weasley has been taken to the chamber!"

* * *

Booker was at a loss for words.

A girl had been taken. A little, eleven-year-old child, taken to rot in the Chamber of Secrets.

"You have yet to see the other side of the coin, DeWitt."

He looked up to see the dreaded Lutece twins.

"Not right now," he sighed. His two only friends were gone and now these annoyances were back.

"Not yet."

"We are where we are needed..."

"... and needed where we are. And right now, you need us."

"Why?!" he asked. "Why are you bothering me?!"

Rosalind pulled out a slip of paper. It read TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE.

Booker glared at her, and then his jaw dropped when he watched the letters rearrange themselves.

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

"Holy shit..."

"I believe this will provide you with enough informa-"

Booker was already racing off.

"He's much more energetic than he used to be."

"I'm glad this experiment of ours worked, sister."

"You mean this experiment of _yours_."

* * *

He had to get his invisibility cloak if he wanted to sneak around, and it was in his...

Hold on.

He paused, just outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

There was a voice, asking for help.

Malfoy's voice.

Wand at the ready, Booker burst in.

" _Expelliarmus!_ " he shouted, the spell shooting out and hitting Lockhart dead in the chest, sending him flying into one of his many portraits.

Malfoy was ruffled, his shirt hanging off his shoulder and his belt unbuckled. His wide eyes were filled with fear - perhaps he hadn't expected the Boy-Who-Lived to be his savior.

"Why you-"

Booker was already running at him, and with a hard punch, knocked the man out against the wall.

He paused to take a breather. All this running was tiring. God, he really needed to work out.

He walked over to Malfoy, and helped the boy buckle his belt and redo his shirt.

"You okay?"

The blond boy was in shock. "He tried to... he was going to..."

Booker wanted nothing more than to give the kid a hug, but he knew that wouldn't go well.

"C'mon. Let's get you to a teacher," he said gently.

"Snape. I want to see Snape."

"Alright."

It didn't take long to find the man, who was patrolling the halls, and Malfoy immediately hugged the man's waist and started sobbing.

The hook-nosed man sent an accusatory look Booker's way, but he shook his head. "It wasn't me. It was Lockhart. He was... sexually assaulting him."

A dark expression cross Snape's face. "I will handle this. You, back to your dorm."

Booker couldn't have left faster.

He had a girl to save.

* * *

 **AN:i do not condone sexual assault, let alone on children. this is for the sake of the story. if i get any complaints they will be ignored. you were WARNED.**

 **i always felt like lockhart had ulterior motives. there was no way in hell he could teach a class, that much was obvious. not to mention he just creeped me out all the time when i read the second book. i understand if some of you are turned off this fic because of this, but remember. I WARNED YOU.**

 **fast. fuckin. updates. i'll try to spread them out but i'm just writing so much to avoid doing all the economics and government and multicultural studies and financial literacy and every other class i have to finish ;_; at least creative writing is fun, and my eyeliner has been nothing but on POINT lately so im all good**


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: hello everyone. hope you're all doing well. im currently eating a whole pint of ice cream as i write this. it's ben & jerry's new 'chubby hubby' and lemme just say it is _delicious_. if you're a chocolate peanut butter connoisseur like me, its a must have!**

 **not gonna lie, some ppl unfollowed the story and it breaks my heart, but i understand if its because of the content of last chapter.**

* * *

Booker arrived to his dorm out of breath and began to prepare himself.

It was time.

He pulled the invisibility cloak from his trunk, double checked his pocket for his wand, and pulled the cloak over him. Luckily, all his dorm mates were in the common room, and he stuffed his bed to make it look he was asleep, and easily slipped out the common room.

Along the way, he stole a sword from one of the suits of armor. He might need it.

He arrived to the first floor hearing his blood roaring in his ears and butterflies in his stomach.

Booker remembered someone, a young blonde girl telling him she had butterflies in her stomach, and he had told her to digest them. He did his best to do the same.

Myrtle's bathroom was luckily not flooded, and he entered with ease.

He spent a few moments inspecting the bathroom before he noticed a small snake symbol on a sink in front of a broken mirror.

That had to be it.

Doing his best to emulate the hissing of the snake, he whispered, "Open."

Immediately, the sinks began to transform, turning into a tunnel down into the underground.

"Well, that's new," Myrtle said.

Taking off the cloak, to her surprise, Booker stuffed it in his pocket and told her, "If I don't come out in an hour, send for the teachers, yeah?"

She nodded fervently, and he jumped into the abyss.

* * *

Booker landed on smooth marble floors, barely scuffed.

The gloom of the area was undeniable, but the architecture was rather nice, he had to admit.

Tall spiraling columns with snakes engraved into them of course, stalagmites and stalactites alike adding a sinister edge to the place.

As he walked along the chamber, he saw a large snake skin. It took him nearly five minutes to walk past it, and it was all coiled up.

Good god, this thing was huge. His stolen sword felt like a toothpick in his hands.

He finally arrived at what seemed to be the 'main chamber'. A tall statue, presumably of Salazar Slytherin himself, stood at the other end of the chamber, and a small, red-headed girl lay on the ground in the middle.

Ginny Weasley.

He rushed over to check her pulse, and breathed a sigh of relief. She was alive, for now.

"She won't wake," someone said. Male. Soft.

Booker looked up. "Who the hell are you?" he growled.

"Tom Riddle."

"Voldemort," Booker said, gritting his teeth. He lifted his sword and charged, ready to slice the bastard's head off, but it went clean through him.

"A wraith..." Booker gripped the sword with both hands and moved to a defensive position. "What did you do to the girl?"

"She's still alive," said Riddle. "But only just. I am no ghost, nor wraith. I am... a memory, preserved in a diary for fifty years."

"Why her?"

"The diary," said Riddle. "My diary. Little Ginny's been writing in it for months and months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes - how her brothers tease her, how she had to come to school with secondhand robes and books, how she didn't think famous, good, great Harry Potter would ever like her..."

Booker eyed the dark lord as he paced along, telling his little story.

"It's very boring, having to listen to the silly little troubles of an eleven-year-old girl," he went on. "But I was patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic, I was kind. Ginny simply _loved_ me. _No one's ever understood me like you, Tom... I'm so glad I've got this diary to confide in. It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket..._

"If I say it myself, Harry, I've always been able to charm the people I needed. So Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted. . . . I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful, far more powerful than little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul back into her . . ."

"What do you mean?" Booker snarled.

"Haven't you guessed yet, Harry Potter?" said Riddle softly. "Ginny Weasley opened the Chamber of Secrets. She strangled the school roosters and daubed threatening messages on the walls. She set the Serpent of Slytherin on four Mudbloods, and the Squib's cat."

"... shit." Had he known the girl, perhaps he would have noticed it, but he never noticed a little red-head girl like that. "Fuck!"

"Language, Harry."

"Fuck off."

"Of course, she didn't know what she was doing at first. It was very amusing. I wish you could have seen her new diary entries... far more interesting, they became... D _ear Tom, I think I'm losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don't know how they got there. Dear Tom, I can't remember what I did on the night of Halloween, but a cat was attacked and I've got paint all down my front. Dear Tom, Percy keeps telling me I'm pale and I'm not myself. I think he suspects me... There was another attack today and I don't know where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I'm going mad... I think I'm the one attacking everyone, Tom!_ "

Tom inched forward, looking just slightly less transparent. That was not a good sign.

"It took a very long time for stupid little Ginny to stop trusting her diary," said Riddle. "But she finally became suspicious and tried to dispose of it. And then some mudblood bint tried to read it, but luckily for me... you were there. Harry Potter. The one I've been _dying_ to meet..."

"Why me?"

"Well, you see, Ginny told me all about you, Harry," said Riddle. "Your whole _fascinating_ history. I wanted to meet you. To _kill_ you."

Booker smirked. "Tough luck, jackass. You already tried... and failed."

"Because I was unimaginative! The Killing Curse? So boring, no no no. No, I will be using something else..."

Suddenly, there was music. Glorious music, but still. Music?

And a large red bird flew down, dropping the sorting hat, of all things, down on Booker's feet.

"That's it? That's all Dumbledore can give you? A bird and a hat? Ha!" Riddle laughed, high pitched and creepy, before smiling. _"Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four."_

The mouth of the statue opened, and from the void came the one thing Booker did _not_ want to see right this second - the basilisk.

The phoenix, useless thing, flew off, and Booker pulled off his robes - he always wore a t-shirt and pants underneath, of course - and ripped a strip of cloth from the cloak to make a blindfold. He couldn't afford to accidentally see the thing.

It was time to fight.

He lifted the sword, and waited.

 _"Kill him."_

He heard the snake lunge for him... no, that was the tail. The hissing was still faint. He rolled to the side, and just in time as the scaly tail came crashing down next to him. He waited again, and this time, the snake's head came for him. When the hissing was ringing in his ears, he stabbed the sword forward, feeling it stick into flesh. He pulled up the edge of the blindfold to see the inside of the snake's mouth, with the very tip of the sword plunged into the roof of it's mouth.

Nothing. It did nothing at all, and with a triumphant hiss, and the snake swallowed him whole.

The saliva was acidic or something, it had to be, from the way it burned at his skin and clothes. It stung like hell, but rubbing at it just made his skin hurt even more.

Shit. He had to get out. Maybe with... some kind of explosion or, or something.

He had to _think..._

Firefighters! They always exploded in a grand finale when they died! Booker focused as much power as he could to his chest, and turned it into the vigor.

It was horrible. He could smell burnt skin and he swore his heart stopped beating.

Then it all exploded.

There was a ringing in Booker's ears, and he was sobbing in pain.

He tore off the blindfold and looked at the damage.

His chest was bleeding, and there was a humongous indent in the middle of it, bits of bone sticking out and blood dripping beneath him in a large puddle.

How he wasn't dead, he didn't know.

Then he watched with horror as the skin sealed over, leaved a crater shaped scar on his chest, raw and red. He watched his ribs and organs restore themselves underneath the slowly layering muscle.

"How..."

Tom Riddle was off to the side, looking on in wonder. "How are you doing that, Potter?" the not-quite-a-wraith demanded. He was looking less and less opaque by the second. He ignored the man.

Wait.

Shit, Riddle was still alive, and taking Ginny's life with him! Maybe it was the book. Maybe that was the anchor. With anger, Booker grabbed the diary with his hands and ripped it apart.

It mended itself right before his eyes and he snarled.

"Fuck!" He rushed over to the snake's mouth, intending to take the sword to it, but was unable to open its mouth. Furious, he pulled out one of the teeth and stabbed it into the pages, and suddenly backed away at the spout of black ink that fell out of it.

"NO!" Riddle screamed in agony, his wraith-like form suddenly beginning to dissolve in a golden light. Booker turned the pages a bit and stabbed again.

He stabbed it over and over until finally Riddle was nothing more than a destroyed book lying on the ground before him.

Ginny Weasley coughed heavily from where she was on the floor, and began to sit up.

Quickly, Booker pulled on his discarded robe to cover himself. He didn't want the girl to see all that blood.

She gasped when she spotted him and began to sob. "Harry - oh, Harry - I tried to tell my brother at b-breakfast, but I c-couldn't say it in front of Percy - it was me, Harry - but I -I s-swear I d-didn't mean to - R-Riddle made me, he t-took me over - and - how did you kill that - that thing? W-where's Riddle? The last thing I r-remember is him coming out of the diary-"

"Shhh..." Booker took her hand and shushed her. "Let's just get you out of here and back to your family, okay?"

"I'm going to be expelled! I've looked forward to coming to Hogwarts ever since B-Bill came and n-now I'll have to leave and - _w-what'll Mum and Dad say?_ "

"I think things are gonna be just fine," Booker said. "Not perfect, but I think they will understand. Riddle was controlling you this whole time, it isn't your fault."

Ginny sighed, still shuddering with tears, but didn't stand.

"I-I'm so... so tired, Harry," she said.

"It's okay," he replied. "I'll carry you."

And he did. He carried her up four flights of stairs to Dumbledore's office, and emerged to a crying redheaded family.

"Hey there," Booker said weakly, handing off Ginny to who he presumed was her father but he couldn't quite tell and his vision was swimming and... oh my.

He promptly fainted.

* * *

Booker awoke to find himself floating.

No. Wait.

He was on a bed. Never mind.

"Harry!"

Hermione. She was at his bedside... she was unpetrified!

"Hermione!" He flung his arms around her, giving her a warm hug, and felt a second set of arms surround him.

He turned to his side and exclaimed, "Neville!" and returned the boy's hug.

"Harry, you've been out for three weeks!"

"I... woah, what?"

Hermione sat down. "Neville and I were unpetrified two weeks ago. Apparently you exhausted your magical stores so much that you had to rest for _three weeks_ to regain it all back!"

"Oh. Wow."

"'Wow' he says. 'Wow'. Harry! What on earth did you do down there?"

"I uh..." He didn't want to tell her. At all. It would devastate her to hear that he had suicide bombed and survived through the power of weird fucking magic or something. "It's a secret."

"I would much like to know myself, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said, stepping out of the corner of the room. He had that look on that face, that preaching look that Comstock always got when he was spouting his lies.

Booker glared. "And I said, it's a secret."

The man gave him a stiff look, but did not press the matter.

Then the doors to the infirmary opened, and the large group of redheads from before burst in.

"Harry Potter!" The woman, presumably Mrs. Weasley, rushed forward and gave him a deep hug. "How on earth could I, could we repay you?"

"Repayment?"

"Yes! We owe you a lifedebt now, you saved our little Ginny from You-Know-Who himself, goodness..."

The rest of the redheaded family nodded in agreement.

Mr. Weasley stepped forward. "Really, son. We owe you one."

Booker smiled weakly. "Let's leave it as an I.O.U. for now, how about that?"

The man nodded. "You ever need anything, just ask, alright?"

"Yes, sir," the veteran replied.

Then the kids stepped forward. The first one was the prefect, the eldest.

"Thank you so much, Harry Potter," the young man said, wiping away a tear. "I was so worried, but I couldn't do anything and... even if you broke the rules, thank you so much."

"Not a problem," Booker replied, a little bit awkwardly. Did this kid just imply that the rules were more important than... never mind.

Next, the twins.

"Thank you-"

"- yes, thank you-"

"- we could have lost our little sister-"

"- unlike Percy over here we fully approve of breaking the rules-"

"- especially to save lives-"

"- and as such we grant you immunity from our pranks for the rest of our time at Hogwarts."

Booker chuckled. "Sounds great. Thanks, uh... Frank and Greg, right?"

The twins exchanged glances and laughed. "Close enough, Harry."

Finally, it was Ron.

Ron, who had bullied Hermione the year before.

"I know we haven't really gotten along," Ron muttered. "We hardly know each other. I doubt you remember my name."

"I do," Booker said.

"R-really?"

"Only because you bullied Hermione, yeah."

"Ronald!" Mrs. Weasley whapped the back of the boy's head.

"Hey, he's learned his lesson," Booker objected. "He leaves her alone these days. They even work on homework together sometimes."

Mrs. Weasley gave him a surprised look, but lowered her hand.

"Anyways, thank you, a lot, for saving my sister. I've felt this whole year like she's my responsibility and then I went and lost her, a-and didn't even notice she was being possessed, and... and..."

"Hey, no problem, kid," Booker replied. And he meant it.

* * *

Finally, the end of the year came. Exams, for some god awful reason, were cancelled, again.

Booker was forced to stay in the infirmary for a week longer to regain his strength and got many visitors. Ginny Weasley, the other Weasleys, Colin Creevey, and, finally, Malfoy Senior.

The man strode in with his snake-headed cane and a grim disposition.

"I must say, you don't do anything by halves, do you, Mr. Potter?"

"I beg your pardon?" Booker asked.

"First you save my son from that pedophile, then you murder a basilisk. The ministry is overlooking the Chamber, Lockhart has been arrested, and I must ask, how did you do it?"

Noting the way the man so easily brushed off the most likely traumatizing experience his son had experience, Booker used the same reply as always. "Secret."

Malfoy, seemingly expecting that answer, shrugged. "Regardless, I owe you a debt of gratitude for saving my son. How shall I repay you?"

He took a moment to think and then replied, "Two things. First, send your son to a therapist. Second, give me Dobby."

"Dobby? You want my house-elf?"

"Yes."

"How... how do you even know his name? Nevermind, I'm not sure I want to know. Very well. Dobby!"

With a crack, Dobby appeared, and his face lit up at the sight of Booker.

"Mr. Harry Potter, sir! You..." The house-elf trailed off under Malfoy's gaze.

"Mr. Potter here has saved Draco, Dobby," the blond man announced.

"He has? Oh thank Dobby's dustpan!" Dobby held a hand to his chest, and it was obvious that he truly did care for his young charge.

"In return, he would like to have you," Malfoy said bitterly.

"Mr. Harry Potter would like... me?"

Booker nodded in reply.

"As such," Malfoy muttered, and pulled off his cloak, and handed it to Dobby. "You're free of my service."

Dobby held the cloak tenderly, and proceeded to weep.

"Oh! Master Harry Potter sir is too kind!" Dobby handed the cloak back to Malfoy, not quite wanting it, and blew his nose on his pillowcase of a smock. "Master Harry Potter is so amazing!"

"I will take my leave," Malfoy muttered, and he turned on his heel and left with a brisk walk.

"Master Harry Potter survived the Chamber of Secrets. Dobby ought not speak ill of his old masters but it was Lucius Malfoy that gave the diary to Ginny Weezy!"

Dobby immediately clamped his hands over his mouth.

"Dobby, no punishments unless I give them," Booker warned.

The house-elf nodded obediently. "Dobby understands, Master Harry Potter, sir."

"Now, is there anything I have to do to officially own you or..." Booker winced. God, he sounded like someone from Columbia.

"No, Master Harry Potter owns Dobby the second the ownership is transferred!"

"Would you be adverse to me freeing you?" he asked. "I feel uncomfortable... owning you, like a slave."

Dobby looked down. "Dobby has always wanted to be free, but to be a free elf would be unhealthy. Old Magick binds us to wizards. Without a family to serve, we do not have magic, and often cannot survive long."

Booker frowned. "Then... you are no servant of mine."

Dobby looked up in horror.

"You're a friend I happen to own. How's that?"

The house-elf's face lit up. "That is acceptable, Master Harry Potter, sir!"

* * *

 **AN: phew! chapter eleven done, year two DONE!**

 **hope y'all are ready to see how 'sirius' things get ;D jk. sirius doesn't show up for a little bit.**


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: my dad has a cold and i can hear him constantly sniffling in the other room. poor dude.**

 **to lilnudger82: thanks for giving my fic a shot!**

 **we hit 75 reviews! tbh this is the happiest i've been in a few days, and its all thanks to you guys! thank you all so much!**

* * *

The train ride back to London was somber. Hermione was going on vacation somewhere, France probably, and Neville was going to be busy with being the Heir of an Ancient and Noble House, leaving Booker alone and bored over summer. Well, save for Dobby.

"I don't get why you don't have to do it, Harry," Neville complained. "I have to learn all this etiquette and manners and how to introduce myself."

"I'm an orphan," Booker replied. "No one to teach me. Send me some of your books though, I would like to learn this."

"Oooh, me too, me too!" Hermione exclaimed at the notion of books.

Neville chuckled and promised, only to suddenly be interrupted by Malfoy Jr. opening the door to their compartment, sans the two cronies. Hermione immediately clammed up, and Neville gave his best effort at a glare.

"Potter... could I speak to you? I-in private," the blond asked, and guessing what was coming, Booker stood and talked with him.

They stood in the train corridor for a moment before Draco said, "I wanted to thank you for... for saving me from... you know."

"Don't worry about it," Booker replied. "And if you feel like you owe me or something then just leave me and my friends alone and we'll call it even. Hell, you can study with us in the library if you keep the insults to yourself."

"R-really?" The boy looked at him in such wonder and fear that Booker was regretting being such an asshole to him earlier... ehhh, he deserved it for being a little shit.

"Of course, kid. I'll see you next year."

He bid Malfoy farewell and went back into the compartment to chat it up with his two best friends.

* * *

Booker stepped off the train with his trunk and pockets packed full of various candies from the trolley.

He didn't forget his promise to bring Dudley all that candy, but he had a plan to get the kid to work for it.

He also gave Hermione the Dursleys' phone number, just in case, and she gave him her home phone number. It felt good to have some other means of communication available that wasn't owl post. Hermione had to go to Diagon Alley to send those letters and that was a pretty penny.

When the Dursleys pulled up, Booker quickly put his trunk in the back and shoved himself into the backseat.

"So, how was uh... the year, Harry?" Dudley asked as Vernon pulled out of the parking lot.

"It was... eventful. Some kids got hurt, I almost died. The usual."

"Y-you almost died?"

"I don't want to hear it! None of that nonsense in my house or car!" Vernon, of course, caused a ruckus, almost running a red light.

Booker chuckled and winked Dudley's way.

* * *

"No way, a forty-foot snake?! You killed it?!"

"Yep! I turned myself into a bomb and killed it."

"How did you survive?"

"No idea, but I have this _massive_ scar now," Booker said, pulling up his t-shirt.

"Wow..." Dudley looked at him in awe. "You used to be so scrawny but now you're starting to get muscular. I wonder if I'll ever get to be like that."

Booker, remembering his plan, shrugged. "Maybe. I did bring you some candy, by the way. But," he paused, noting Dudley's eager look, "I'll only give it to you if you go on a jog with me in the mornings."

"Aw, what?"

"Hey, you said you want to be a bit more like me, yeah? I'll wake you up tomorrow morning."

And he did. Changing Dudley into something appropriate for running was the easy part. The hard part was getting him to keep up.

"Slow down, Harry!"

"If I slow down any more I won't get any exercise, Dudders. Keep up! Or should I leave you behind?"

"No!"

They went around the neighborhood, and an hour later, two sweaty young tweens arrived back at their starting point.

"That. Was. Horrible."

"That's gonna be daily, Dudley."

"What?!"

Luckily, Petunia approved of this, and let Booker off the hook on most of his chores if he was getting her son to exercise. Vernon just turned a blind eye.

Being at the start of puberty, he was starting to develop actual muscle, and got that horrible back acne that he had gotten in his past life. Luckily, it didn't mar his face too much, and next thing he knew, girls were checking him out from their front windows when he went running by.

It was a little weird to him. He was only twelve, almost thirteen. Was he really that interesting?

Whatever. He kept jogging, did pushups and situps, and got a growth spurt. Dudley only did the jogging, but went down in waist size a good amount, much to Petunia's delight.

"My Dudders is growing up and becoming a fine young man!"

"It's all thanks to Harry, really, mum," Dudley insisted as she hugged him tight.

She ignored the comment and continued cooing over him.

Meanwhile, Booker struck a deal with Vernon. He would do all the yard work, but in return he got free reign of the unused garage.

What Vernon didn't know was that Dobby was doing the yard work and Booker was making a tear machine in the garage.

Ah well, nothing bad would happen... hopefully.

It took him about a month, but finally, on his birthday, he completed the machine, and was ready to open it, only for four owls to appear in the night sky. Three held packages, and the fourth was a school owl.

The first package was from Neville, which was a stack of books on magical etiquette and such. There was also a pendant for protection.

The second one was from Hermione, with a chemistry kit for home, and some small hints for homework.

The third package was received from Hagrid, of all people, with a large birthday cake (his first, to be honest).

Meanwhile, the Hogwarts letter was a list of classes (Booker vaguely remembered telling Neville to take Ancient Runes with him) and their required supplies, as well as a permission slip for the village of Hogsmeade.

Welp.

* * *

Aunt Marge was coming.

For some inconceivable reason, the woman loved him. Perhaps it was because her dogs loved him. Perhaps it was because he was polite to her out of fear of no dinner. Not a damn clue.

Regardless, he didn't mind. Vernon and Petunia couldn't treat him like shit or Marge would get on their asses and he was free to act like a total jock.

"Boy!"

Booker looked up from his project in the garage. When was he ever going to get a chance to use it?

"Aunt Marge is coming! You will pick her up from the station with me!"

"Yes, sir!"

And he was bundled up in a jacket and his scarf and in the car, going out there in the pouring rain with an umbrella at the ready.

"You won't be telling her about that, that Hogwash school, do you hear me?" Vernon sputtered.

"I already have a story in mind," Booker replied.

"St. Brutus's School for Incurable Criminal Boys?"

"What?" With a confused look, he shook his head. "No, St. Brinkworth's Military School."

"Oh… that works, I suppose."

"Hey, Vernon."

"What?"

"I will act perfectly normal, but you gotta sign a permission slip for me."

Vernon snarled. "Fine! Now get ready to carry her bags for her."

When they arrived at the station, the rain was coming down like a Hail Mary. Booker quickly opened up the umbrella and waited for Marge on the curb. She arrived with two large bags at her sides and Ripper bounding along at her side.

"Let me get your bags for you, Aunt Marge," Booker said, and he handed her the umbrella and grabbed her bags, putting them in the trunk.

"Oh Harry! You're such a fine young man, I don't get why my brother always says you're trouble."

"Not a clue, ma'am, not a clue."

Once they were all back in the car, Marge struck up conversation with Vernon about his company. Apparently it wasn't doing too well.

When they got to the house, Dudley begrudgingly helped Booker bring in Marge's bags and proceeded to sit back down at the dinner table. It was obvious the boy was ready for the welcoming feast. Marge and Vernon joined him at the table and soon the whole family, even Booker, was seated, eating and chatting like it was normal to have the orphan seated there.

"So, Harry, what school do you go to?" Marge asked as she served herself some potatoes

"Ah, St. Brinkworth's Military School," Booker replied, handing her the gravy. "It's an all boys school, very strict."

"Oooh, sounds like troublemakers go there."

"There's a few, but it's mostly military brats."

"Why go there?" the large woman asked around a mouthful of food.

"The military is a reliable job," he replied, cutting into his steak. "It will provide me with money, and when I get enough, I head to college."

"Smart boy, aren't you! And what about you, Dudders! What have you been doing at school?"

"Uhhh…" Dudley looked up from his peas.

"Boxing, right?" Booker said after an awkward silence. He wasn't, but maybe he could get into it.

"Oh, right! Boxing, forgot about it. It's quite fun, Aunt Marge."

"I'm glad to hear it, my dear. By the way, Petunia, these potatoes are just marvelous."

"Oh, thank you, Marge," Petunia replied.

After dinner was finished and dessert was being served, Booker gathered the plates and put them in the dishwasher.

"I just don't get why you call him trouble," Marge was saying as they dug into ice cream. "He's perfectly polite."

This was going to be a week of ass-kissing and pretending he cared about his family.

* * *

When he finally got time for himself, Booker felt relief wash over him in waves. Good god, that woman spent the whole time talking about what fine young men her nephews were, always doing that cheek grab that old women did to young men. He could finally go back to being a recluse in the garage when the woman was out shopping or whatever she was doing in London.

"What on earth are you doing in there, boy?" Vernon asked one time.

"Science experiments," Booker replied quite truthfully.

"What kind of science?"

"Quantum mechanics."

"Quantum what?"

"Look it up."

And Booker went back into the garage, ready to open a tear.

* * *

"Where do you plan to go, Mr. DeWitt?" a familiar voice asked.

"To a city under the sea."

Lutece stepped out of the shadows with synchronized movements. "Sounds... fun."

"Heh. You would know, wouldn't you? Bastards."

He set the time. He set the location. He set the charges, ignoring the loud noises his machine made.

It wasn't the same as the Luteces, his worked a bit faster and was smaller, but it would work just fine.

Getting the parts had been the hard part. Finding the right metals to work with the quantum particles and tear apart space and time was difficult, but finally, he was able to go into a new world.

He activated the tear, and with a deep breath, stepped through.

* * *

 **AN: been listening to so much diveo when writing. show me how you feel, girl, show me how you feel~**


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: this fic just went up another thousand in views. i know that probably doesnt mean much but it means a lot to me that people are reading my fic! man and before i was excited about 400+ views when we hit 21k. lol.**

 **in other news, i got an interesting review on this fic and im relatively sure the person did not read the same fanfic i've been writing lmao**

 **sorry for a late update, by the way! was busy with rl stuff. school, yearbook, hanging out with my parents that weren't around when i was younger :^) that kind of stuff.**

 **SPOILER WARNING: spoilers for burial at sea are abound. you have been warned. granted, you probably already played/watched it. just in case, thats all.**

 **SMALL warning for self-harm. it's non-graphic and while not taken lightly, it is not in the manner you expect.**

 **also thank you so much to Wild Birdie, my new beta! she will be reviewing this chapter and any after this one!**

* * *

Rapture. No men, no gods, only monsters.

Booker had done his research, of course. He wasn't going in blind. He didn't like Rapture. He didn't like what they did to children. He aimed to change that. He wouldn't take it. No children twisted into demons, no prisoners molded into their protectors. He would do what it takes to save every last child.

He arrived in a bathroom and slipped on his invisibility cloak. First things first, he needed some new clothes.

Fifteen minutes later, he was trashing his old clothing and shoving the cloak in his pocket with his wand.

He was dressed rather sharply, if he may say so himself. He wore a blue button-up shirt with a striped tie and a grey vest with a matching pair of pants. He looked like a young man on the way to a job interview or something. At least, he hoped so. He was still thirteen. He didn't quite look it, looking slightly older, but it was no matter.

First things first, he had to meet with Tenenbaum. Best bet was with the Little Sisters, who were mostly in Fontaine Industries.

He ignored the various celebrations going on. It seemed it was New Years, judging by the cocktail dresses and coattails he saw around every corner.

Wait, wasn't the new year of 1959 important in some way?

Then the world exploded.

As water poured in, Booker felt panic... then fear... then nothing.

* * *

He awoke, soaking, on a rough wooden floor, surrounded by young girls. Upon seeing him awaken, they dashed away, giggling.

"Mama Tenenbaum!" one of the girls called. "He's awake!"

"Just a moment," an accented voice replied. Just the woman he was looking for, it would seem.

The scientist entered the room with her arms full of various vials.

"Goodness, I was sure you were dead. Your name is DeWitt, yes?"

"Yes, ma'am," Booker replied ignoring his headrush as he sat up. "Please, call me Harry."

"Very well, Harry. I am Doctor Tenenbaum. I was contacted earlier by a pair known as the Lutece Twins. They have informed me that you wish to save the children."

Booker nodded.

"Then you will need these plasmids," she said, gently dropping the vials on his lap. "This will give the the ability to cure the girls of their affliction. I've been making many in the hopes that more than one person would help me, but so far... I've only found you."

"Will I only need the one, or do I need to take it each time I find a girl?" Booker asked, still shivering slightly from the cold water.

"Just the one time, Harry. I have also been asked to provide you with weaponry, but I am hesitant to send you out there."

He raised an eyebrow, silently asking why.

"You're so... so young," Tenebaum whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair out of his face. "I do not wish to risk any more children."

"I know my way around a brawl," he replied. "Let me do this for them. Let me save them."

The woman sighed, and Booker noticed the bags under her eyes, the way her face hung low, the gray hairs wisping about her hairline. This whole debacle was definitely getting to her.

"... very well."

She handed him a pistol and a switchblade, and sent him on his way.

* * *

There was one girl in particular he was looking for. French. Blonde. Sally.

He couldn't... he couldn't remember where she came from, how he knew her. All he knew was that he owed it to her to save her.

Rapture was familiar, in a way. He felt like he should know these walls, deep beneath the sea.

He found this underwater city's version of a skyhook, called an airgrabber, which was a considerably worse name. He found bodies with faces he knew from somewhere in his foggiest memories. When he tasted the scent of splicers' blood, flashes of things he knew he should remember flooded his mind.

It was all too confusing, but it felt... right.

He lost track of the amount of times he got shot, hit, stabbed, and mauled. The wounds would sting as they healed far too quickly to be possible, and he blamed magic. Then, of course, he had to wonder.

He had survived turning into a human bomb. He had survived hundreds of splicers and Big Daddies. He survived near starvation in his early "youth".

Was he... actually immortal?

The theory was out of this world, but when he next took a rest, he took a knife to his neck. The blood poured down his front, but the wound healed like any other would, and Booker stared in a foggy mirror, horrified at this realization.

What on earth was he?

* * *

The difficulty in saving Little Sisters was only topped by the difficulty of finding them. The girls were shy. They didn't want to hang out with an old soul like him, and more often than not, they would be scared. He had just killed their Big Daddy and was coated in blood.

Of course, little girls do not like the look of a man who looked like a butcher. They screamed and ran for the vent holes, and Booker hated to get rough with them, but as long as he saved them he counted it as a necessity. The girls were quick little ankle-biters, but his Undertow was faster. They weren't any less scared when cured, but at least they thanked him and went off to Tenenbaum when he told them to.

It didn't make it hurt any less. To be feared was a terrible thing.

It was even worse when he found her.

Sally.

She had migrated to Arcadia, with a Rosie and it was as difficult as always to get her away from the Big Daddy.

But when he touched her, held her head in his hands and cured her, memory flooded his brain.

How he forgot her. How he just left her. How he looked for her, then gave up. Elizabeth came, made him right his wrongs, and betrayed him.

The phantom pain of a drill going through his middle sent shivers down his spine, but Sally was here, and she wasn't running.

"Monsieur DeWitt," she whispered in reverence. "You came for me?"

"Always, Sally," he promised, and for a moment, everything was alright.

* * *

After finding Sally, she led him to the last person he wanted to see. The sting of betrayal had yet to sting, but he needed to see her.

The corpse lay against one of the many glass walls of the underwater city, the blood dried and skin rotting.

"Hey Elizabeth," he said, kneeling. Sally stood behind him, a small hand comfortingly placed on his back.

Of course, there was no response.

"I'm, well. Not very happy with you. You've started going down a pretty dark path. I can only hope you've learned to stop."

"What do you mean, Monsieur DeWitt?" Sally asked.

"It's a long story, Sally."

"I love stories, Monsieur DeWitt."

"Not this one. Go back to Tenenbaum for a bit alright?"

She obeyed, giving him a curious look as she left.

Booker looked back at the corpse of his daughter, feeling as though he was at fault. Had he been a better man… had he actually raised her, would she have turned out like this? A hunter with an endless pool of targets? There was no true way to get rid of Comstock. For every universe he died, there was another where he didn't. She would never rest if she continued on this path.

Booker sighed, picking up his gun and standing up.

"Goodbye, Anna."

He took her pendant as a reminder and left.

* * *

Dobby was, as always, attentive and obedient. When Booker sent the signal through Suchong's tear machine, the house-elf opened up the tear, and Booker was back home. Tenenbaum took the girls to the surface, made an orphanage for the girls, and with a heavy heart, Booker bid goodbye to his darling Sally.

Dobby told him it had only been a few hours, and proceeded to fuss all over him, his wounds and torn clothing, shining his shoes and cutting his hair.

"Master Harry Potter sir must keep better care of himself! Look at this! Why, Dobby has never seen anything worse - look at this tear! What happened here, hm?"

With a grin, he replied honestly. "I was attacked with a machete. And I've told you a million times, don't call me Master."

Dobby just shook his head in disapproval and mended the suit with a quick bit of magic.

"Dobby will have to scrub all night to get these stains out," the house-elf said with a hmph.

"My bad, Dobby. I'll get you some new socks soon."

"Harry Potter better!"

* * *

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I've been wondering if you would like to meet my family. Ever since you saved my life in first year, they've been begging me to send you a message like this, so here I am, writing to you._

 _Please meet us in London on the 23rd of July for lunch at Julius' Banquet._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Hermione_

* * *

Booker looked up the restaurant and found it fancy enough to warrant wearing his newly mended suit. Thank Dobby's incredible cleaning skills.

He showed up early, and was surprised by Hermione's new braces.

"Don't say it," she said with a frown.

"Say what?"

"I look like a beaver."

"You don't?"

She refused to believe him, and introduced him to her parents.

"Sorry grandma isn't here, her back was hurting today. This is my father, Devon Granger, and this is my mother, Sally Granger."

Booker looked at the woman with a curious look. Blonde hair, pulled into a high bun. Blue eyes behind a pair of glasses. The baby fat was replaced with wrinkles of age, but it was there.

It was his little girl. Sally.

She gave him a wink and urged Hermione into the restaurant, a faint French accent on her lips.

The food was delicious, and lunch was a quick affair. He ate a buffalo steak with a white wine sauce and a side of asparagus.

It was after the dinner that Sally asked to speak with him alone.

They went to a corner of the restaurant and she hugged him quickly.

"Booker…"

"Sally…"

"I had always thought I would never see you again. The father I wished I knew better."

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, Sally. I hope Tenenbaum treated you well."

"Oh, don't worry about that," the woman said as she pulled away. "I was adopted pretty early on. My mother, Anna, raised me well."

"That's good to hear," he replied. "Should we get back to the table?"

"No, not yet. My husband wants to speak with you for just a moment."

The parents traded places, and Booker stood before a tall dark-skinned man with the deepest laugh lines he had ever seen. The man obviously had a good life to be smiling like that.

"I'd like to start by saying thank you," Devon said, shaking Booker's hand. "Without you, my little girl would not be here anymore. We had considered pulling her out of the school, but she insisted on staying because she was friends with you, and you saved her again this past year."

"She's been one of my greatest friends," Booker replied, honesty coloring his voice. "One of my first friends, in fact. Hermione has been as much a lifesaver to me as I was to her."

Devon gave him another brilliant smile. Had Booker leaned that way, he would've blushed.

"I'm just glad she has such a good friend. Let's get back to the table for dessert, shall we?"

* * *

Hermione's house was a regular townhouse, with two floors and three bedrooms.

Booker had not been expecting to see an old, wrinkled Elizabeth, seated in the drawing room, knitting what seemed to be a tea cozie.

"Oh hello!" she exclaimed, rising to give him a hug. "You must be Harry."

"Yes, that's me," he replied.

"We'll talk soon," she whispered. Then she turned to her granddaughter. "Hermione, dear, go help your parents with the tea, I would like to talk to Harry alone."

With a confused look, the girl disappeared into the kitchen, and Booker sat down, grasping the woman's hand.

"Elizabeth… no, Anna."

"It's been so long, Booker. I haven't seen you in several years."

"I haven't seen you in over a decade. Anna, you're alternate self is-"

"I know." The woman picked up her knitting again and began once more. "And who do you think stopped me?"

"... Sally?"

"No, silly," she said, shaking her head. "You did."

"But, how? I haven't even seen you yet."

" _Yet_. You will, Booker. You will."

Hermione and her parents arrived with the tea then, and Booker was left to stew on that thought.

* * *

 **AN: going off of the appearance of Tenenbaum in bioshock 2. looked a lot better. lets just pretend that ugly model they used in the first game didn't exist :^)**

 **also yeah. thats how the multi-verse works, to me. for every universe something happens, theres one where it doesn't. there's an infinite amount of universes, that's why it's called bioshock infinite. there is no real way to get rid of comstock and booker.**

 **been watching the NA LCS when writing. im a big TSM and C9 fan so its been quite the split!**

 **also, anyone out there good at cosplay? im planning on doing a kalista cosplay and i could use any advice i can get!**

 **BN [Beta Note]: Hello Readers! My name is Wild Birdie here on but I also write on archive of our own as Creative Creature or Evora Layne, so I have experience writing. While I don't play Bioshock, I am a HUGE fan of Harry Potter and I tend to love video games because of the lore and background. I promise to do my best as I beta Pastry's chapters. Also on the cosplay, maybe try looking up examples and then planning out budget and supplies that you need. Maybe also try asking professional cosplayers like Elizabeth Rage or Chris Villain, they do DIY cosplay as well.**

 **edit: pastry forgot to put in the beta edits cuz shes DUMB**


	14. Chapter 14

**AN: hey guys, pastry here. i would like to start off with a huge apology for not updating in a timely manner. so much stuff has happened in the time passed. i graduated high school, i sucked dick (tastes p much like i expected it to. like flesh.). i also turned eighteen! woo i can look at porn legally now.**

 **things are gonna (hopefully) start kicking off. third year is not gonna be a repeat of the books, with just booker in harry's place. things are going to be different.**

 **also last chapter i forgot to put in the beta edits! so sorry birdie! its typos and grammar so you don't need to read it again, don't worry.**

 **one more thing: just remembered someone didnt get why i put booker in hufflepuff. it's because he's a loyal man. might not be loyal to all, but once you have his allegiance, he would die for you. houses in hp are all about your most valuable quality, no matter how loudly you proclaim it or quietly you hide it.**

* * *

The rest of the summer was spent corresponding with Hermione and Neville. He even got a few messages from Anna and Sally, and was invited to spend the winter holidays with them. He considered it, but he had another trip to Rapture planned - something told him he wasn't done down there.

When he arrived at the station courtesy of Vernon, he pulled out his trunk and walked into King's Cross. Just as he walked in he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a woman with a hat shaded over her blue eyes, with dark hair and familiar red lips.

Elizabeth.

Time seemed like a foreign concept as he caught her eye. She gave him a cold gaze as people passed between them, and disappeared into the crowd. That couldn't be good, but Booker shook his head of the thought. Not one to dwell on things for too long, he went back to weaving between the throngs of people to get to the pillar, and then pushed through, almost falling on top of someone.

"Sorry," he said as he stood, slightly wobbly on his feet. He held out his hand to the boy he fell on, and was taken up on his offer.

"No problem, mate," Ron Weasley replied.

With a polite nod, Booker went on his way, boarding the train and finding the usual compartment. Neville was already in there, an excited grin on his face.

"I got a couple of bluebells over the summer, but I wanted it to be a surprise!" Neville exclaimed with a wide, toothy grin. "Take a look!"

Hermione arrived a few minutes later, and Neville showed them the wonders of his plant. It looked much like the same flower muggles saw, only when it was touched, it rang out with a shrill bell noise. It wasn't the most interesting, until Neville said that the flowers will let out a particular tune when someone was about to die.

"Just like banshees?"

"Just like banshees! Only less loud, and much prettier. Don't tell any banshees I said that."

The train began to move, and Hermione began checking over their homework.

"You don't have to do that, you know," Booker said. "I'm sure Neville is just fine with what he's got, he's smart, and I don't really mind getting something wrong, because the teachers will teach me what I got wrong."

Halfway through a page, she frowned, but nodded. "You're right. I guess I just worry about grades a lot."

"Hey, it's alright," Neville said with a grin. "First step is admitting it."

They chattered about small things, this and that, when about halfway through the trip, the train came to a halting stop, almost knocking Neville's bluebells to the floor.

"What's going on?" Hermione asked, her voice filled with confusion. Neville's grip on the potted flowers grew tighter.

The lights then flickered out, eliciting screams all along the train. The glass of the windows grew cold, quickly fogging up with an icy bite. Neville put his hand to the glass and immediately drew away with a hiss. This was not normal weather for September, no matter how cold

"L-lumos," Hermione attempted, but only a faint glow came from the tip of her wand. "I-I can't do it. Too c-cold."

They waited in the darkness, feeling the train compartment get colder and colder before Booker decided to take a look out in the corridor.

He saw her there, in a dark cloak with a gun in her hand.

He steeled his expression and stepped out to face his daughter.

"Hello, Comstock," she said, raising the gun.

"What are you doing, Elizabeth?" he asked. "I'm not Comstock."

"No. You aren't," she replied, lowering the weapon with a sigh. "But you could turn out to be."

"What, so you kill me?"

"Maybe." She hummed as if in deep thought. "Or maybe that will do it for me." She was looking over his shoulder, and Booker whirled around to see something skeletal in a cloak, slowly taking off its hood and bending towards him.

A feeling of unavoidable dread, of impending doom, swept over him in thick sheets.

There was no escape.

He was going to die, for real this time.

Distantly, he heard Hermione and Neville calling out to him.

Neville's bluebells let out a haunting tune.

"Smother him," Elizabeth said. "For good."

Smother...

Yes...

"Potter!"

Someone ran towards him, pushing him down and he fell to the floor with a grunt. There was a terrible sound, a deep exhale, and a heavy body fell on top of him.

He sat up, taking a look, and there lay a familiar red-headed boy with a glassy-eyed expression and a significant lack of breath. He checked the boy's pulse, and felt something twist in his stomach in absolute horror.

"Expecto Patronum!" A scratchy male voice shouted the spell with fervor, chasing the creature away, but it was too late.

Percy Weasley was dead.

* * *

Booker woke up in the Hospital Wing again.

He didn't remember passing out. There was no flood of memory either - it was branded into his mind the second he woke.

A boy was dead.

A boy was dead and it was his fault.

If only he'd just... just used his vigors, or fought Elizabeth, or something! What was that creature?

"I'm sure you have many questions, Mr. Potter," an elderly voice said. He looked up to see Professor McGonagall, with a grim expression.

"What were those creatures? What happened? Why were they on the train?" He could hear the terror rise in his voice, and she held up her hand to pause him.

"They were Dementors, Mr. Potter. Beings of pure despair, used to guard the wizarding prison, Azkaban."

"I've heard that before..."

"You've perhaps heard of Sirius Black, who escaped from the prison recently. That is why they were on the train. They were searching for him."

"What?" Booker couldn't believe he was hearing this. "You let things like that near children?"

"I didn't. Dumbledore did, and he is currently facing inquiries. The Ministry of Magic would like to hear what you did in your first two years, seeing as to how involved you were. You will be excused from your classes, should you decide to go."

That man... he deserved to rot with those monsters, for his actions, or lack thereof, when it came to protecting his students. A boy was dead now because of him.

"I'll do it."

* * *

The Ministry of Magic was the most boring looking building he had ever seen. The dark marble, the gold accents - it just wasn't engaging. Pleasing to the eye, yes, but not quite interesting.

He met with Madame Bones, Head of the DMLE, in her office. It was a prim and well-decorated room, much better than what he had seen out in the lobby.

"Tea, Mr. Potter?" she asked politely.

"I'd say coffee but I should probably not," he replied. "Let's get down to business."

"Very well," she replied, obviously put-off by his professional attitude. "Tell me about your years at Hogwarts."

A couple of hours later, after many questions and quite a bit more note-taking, the questioning was done.

"Should you wish to see the trial, please let your interim headmistress know. Good day, Mr. Potter," Madame Bones said, and Booker was escorted out of the office.

The woman took a seat, reviewing her notes. This was going to be an interesting trial.

* * *

 ** _DUMBLEDORE ARRESTED FOR CHILD ENDANGERMENT! HOGWARTS UNDER INVESTIGATION!_**

Albus Dumbledore, former headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has been arrested for several counts of child endangerment. A Cerberus and a Death Eater in 1991, a basilisk petrifying students in 1992, and now, a child dead due to Dementors just a week ago. Not only did these happen (more on page 5A) but he never came forward about this!

Albus Dumbledore, an esteemed war hero of the Blood Wars that ended in 1981, is not as trustworthy as we all thought. His actions and inaction have led to many traumatic experiences across the country from who he employed to what dangers he would let into the school. He has been removed from the school and his many titles are under question. The new Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall, has sworn not to make the same mistakes he has, and is currently hiring for a Transfiguration teacher.

* * *

The trial was nothing special. Booker showed up in his school uniform, lacking a real suit, and watched as Dumbledore answered the questions, often with half-hearted excuses.

McGonagall escorted him there and back, having testified as well, and afterwards, they sat in the Headmistress' office, newly decorated in a royal purple instead of favoring the Gryffindor red. They were sipping tea, a somber yet peaceful atmosphere set around them. Without all the strange (and apparently half illegal) trinkets Dumbledore had kept in the office, it was a much more charming and calming room.

McGonagall set her cup down with a small sigh. "You know, Mr. Potter, I never did thank you."

Booker looked up with a confused expression.

"For saving me, back in your first year. Without you, I do believe I would not be standing here. Or, rather, sitting."

He chuckled. "You're very much welcome, ma'am."

"I do have to wonder why you never went to the authorities about anything that happened."

"Well, let's see. The only authorities I knew were you and Dumbledore and I wasn't sure how trustworthy either of you were. After that, I didn't even realize there was a magical police, so I didn't really act on that front. And, well, that's that."

"You didn't... right, you were never told of the magical world."

"Not at all."

They both sipped at their tea.

"That man has really, truly messed things up for you, hasn't he?"

"For both of us."

There was another small moment of tea, then a weary sigh from the old woman.

"I had always fancied being the Headmistress of Hogwarts but for it to happen so soon..."

Booker nodded, knowing the feeling of being thrust into a spotlight.

"I suppose I should bounce around a few ideas I've had. What do you think of changing the dorms, Mr. Potter?"

* * *

The school took off classes for a week to adjust the students to the new situation of the school.

There were still houses, of course, and house points, but instead of sharing dorms and common rooms with your house, you shared with your year. The dorms had several rooms with four beds, each for a students on one house, and the common rooms were accessible by any year granted a good reason. Booker new roommates were Draco Malfoy, Dean Thomas, and Anthony Goldstein. Classes were shared with smaller groups of a mixture of all four houses instead of just two houses together.

Even seating in the great hall was changed. Instead of four house tables, you could eat at any of the numerous and endless round tables filling the room, and Booker enjoyed being able to sit at a table with Hermione and Neville without getting the normal weird looks for sitting at the 'wrong' table.

And so, it was at breakfast, the first day that classes were finally back, that Booker found himself munching on some toast when he got a tap on the shoulder. He looked up to see Ron Weasley holding out a letter for him.

"Uh, thanks," he said, opening the letter. It was a short missive from an 'Arthur Weasley', presumably the patriarch of the family, asking to meet him for tea over the weekend.

"No problem," Ron said. "I'll see you there."

Confused, Booker nodded and the redhead left.

"Uh, what does he mean by, 'he'll be there'?"

"Well, what's the message?" Neville asked.

"I'm meeting Arthur Weasley this weekend."

"Then it's most likely a family matter. Ron is probably chosen to be the next patriarch, if he is attending."

"Doesn't he have, like, fourteen older siblings? Isn't it usually the oldest kid that get to be the next patriarch?"

"It depends on the family, really. Though, from what I know, the older brothers have asked to not be the patriarch, or, in one case they were all set to be the patriarch but..."

Glassy eyes. Pale skin. A small, final breath.

"... oh," Booker said in a small voice.

He spent the rest of the day haunted by the memory, and Neville kept quiet about the subject.

* * *

The weekend came abruptly, and McGonagall called him to her office and led him to a room off to the side for the meeting.

Booker wasn't sure what he was expecting, but he was glad to see that Arthur Weasley was as much a fatherly figure as one could get. He had the graying hairs, the receding hairline, the wrinkles of mid-age and a kind smile. He held himself well, and gestured for Booker to take a seat across from him. Ron was seated to the man's right.

"Hello, Harry. I'm Arthur Weasley, patriarch for the Weasley family. You know my son, of course, Ron."

"Indeed I do," Booker replied. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir."

They shook hands, and Arthur's expression steeled.

"Unfortunately, I'm not here on happy business. I'm here to talk about... recent events."

Booker felt his breath catch. He wasn't ready to think about a child, dying for him, let alone discuss it with the boy's father, but he couldn't just very well leave, could he?

"I'm sorry," he blurted out, voice shaky. "I'm so sorry, I made a mistake going out there-"

Arthur held up a hand to stop him. "It's not your fault, son. It never will be. The fault lies with Dumbledore for even thinking to allow Dementors of all beasts onto the train."

Booker wished he could say he felt a great weight lift off his shoulders, but there was still something bearing down on him.

"What I'm here to discuss is something else, though my son's recent passing is related. I've been told you aren't well versed in the rules of high class wizarding society, so I will assume you don't know what a Life Debt is, do you?"

"No, sir, I do not," Booker replied, "but I can guess."

"You're probably correct in your guess. A Life Debt is created when someone saves another from mortal danger. It can be repaid in any way the debt owner likes, unless of course someone from the family owing the Life Debt saves the person in return."

It took a moment for things to add up in Booker's brain. He'd saved Ginny, Percy saved him. "So the Life Debt is done, yeah?"

"It should be, but it isn't, and I was wondering if you could help us understand why."

Booker stiffened as he realized why it wasn't fulfilled. He'd thought that perhaps such a creature could kill him, but this proved him wrong.

"I wish I could tell you," he said with a grim expression, "but I really don't know myself." He truly wished he could tell them but something stopped him. He had felt a phantom grip on his neck when he tried to say it.

Arthur nodded in understanding, even if the look in his eyes said he doubted Booker. "Of course. If you ever do find out, please, let us know."

The former soldier shook his hand and left, shaking.

* * *

After that weekend, things returned to, well, as close to normal as they could get.

The Weasley family was excused for one of the days for the funeral, which Booker was invited to. He declined, but sent his regards and a bouquet of lilies of the valley and stars of Bethlehem.

It was on that day that they finally had their first Care for Magical Creatures class. Booker, who had a free period, tagged along even though he didn't have the class. He'd seen the book in Hermione's overstuffed bag (which he was still investigating), and whatever class had a book like _that_ had to be dangerous.

He managed to save Malfoy a second time, this time from being nearly mauled by a... a thing. He could never remember what the hell anything was called. ("Hippogriff!" Hermione said in his mind's eye, er, ear. He ignored it.)

The teacher looked like a right mess of stress after that, calling off class, and Booker took off with Hermione and Neville.

"That was a rather dangerous first lesson, don't you think?" Neville asked. "I mean, Hagrid is a nice bloke but... he needs to get his priorities straight."

"Especially when working with a bunch of teenagers," Booker muttered.

"Which reminds me," Hermione said, an annoyed look taking over her face,"you're lucky you're not in Divination, Harry."

"Why's that?"

Neville groaned off to the side just at the thought of the teacher.

"Professor Trelawney is the worst teacher I've ever had the displeasure to meet!"

"Worse than Snape? That guy is literally bullying his students."

"That's a matter of character, Harry. I'm talking teaching. She doesn't know what she's doing!"

As they walked up to the castle and down to the Great Hall for lunch, Hermione had listed fourteen different reasons she was a terrible teacher, though some of them didn't make much sense.

"-and then, she said that Ron was going to die. To his face! After what happened to his brother you would think she would have some decency but all she cares about it being 'mysterious' and all that! It's like she doesn't even care-"

"Hermione, I get that you're mad, but eat some damn lunch."

She closed her mouth with a snap, muttered a small, "Language, Harry," and dove into a egg salad sandwich.

* * *

Booker was, quite frankly, unimpressed with the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. He looked haggard, he smelled like mothballs, and Booker's previous experiences were making him doubt the man.

Regardless, he still went to the man's classes, and it was on a beautiful sunny day that Booker had the worst teaching experience ever.

It started with the man being late. Everyone was in their seats, ready to go, when the bell rang and Professor Remus Lupin dashed in three minutes later.

"So sorry, everyone, got caught up with a conversation with Snape in the hallway." He brushed some of his lackluster hair out of his face. "Anyways, please, put away all your books and such and follow me, as we will be doing a practical lesson today."

The students got up, following the man out into the corridor.

Eventually, they arrived to find Peeves the Poltergeist stuffing gum in a keyhole.

Booker hadn't been paying attention, but suddenly the gum came flying out of the keyhole and into the poltergeist's mouth.

"What." Booker just stared as the teacher explained it was a good spell against the meddling spirit.

"Why is he even here, though?" Hermione asked under her breath. "He's a huge trouble and disrupts classes. You'd think they would exorcise him already!"

"Let's bring it up with McGonagall later, then," Booker replied, and that was that.

They entered one of the spare classrooms, which had all the desks piled against one wall and in the far end of the room, a shaking cabinet.

The class followed him towards the cabinet, many of them hanging back. Booker instincts were telling him it wasn't exactly harmless, but it wasn't a huge threat either, and reason won out. Who would put kids with something too dangerous anyways?

... besides Hagrid.

Lupin stood in front of the class and asked, "Now everyone, who knows what a boggart is?"

Hermione's hand shot into the air. Lupin, of course, called on her.

"Yes, Ms. Granger."

"You can't be serious. Showing kids each others' worst fears? Are you trying to set up someone to be bullied?"

He stood still, open-mouthed and shocked, before answering. "I do, well, realize that. However, it is important to learn this spell, should you ever come across a boggart. I can only hope, students, that you will not use the knowledge you gain today against each other. I am depending on you to be the best person you can be after this practical lesson. Now, who can tell me what a boggart is, if you haven't already gleamed it from Ms. Granger's question?"

Booker casually raised his hand, and was surprised to be chosen.

"Mr. Potter, if you would please?"

"It's some sort of creature that shows up as our greatest fear," he said. "And I have to agree with Hermione, doing this in front of everyone when several in our year are well known enemies? Not a good idea."

Lupin seemed disappointed to hear that. "Very well, Mr. Potter, we will do this one at a time, in private, under my supervision."

He conjured a large velvet curtain of a deep royal purple, and it placed itself from floor to ceiling to separate the class and the rattling cabinet.

"I will stand here, right at the edge of the curtain, to keep an eye on you as well as whoever is against the boggart." He situated himself on the proclaimed spot. "Now if you would all form an orderly line, please."

The class quickly scrambled to make a rather messy line, Booker somewhere in the middle. The Gryffindors, of course, were all at the front.

"Now, everyone, this spell only works when you imagine your greatest fear as something hilarious. Repeat after me, class, _Riddikulus!_ "

" _Riddikulus!_ "

"Again!

" _Riddikulus!_ " The class said it louder this time.

"Good! Now, Mr. Longbottom, was it? You first."

Neville stepped behind the curtain, and all noise disappeared as the class attempted to hear what was going on.

"I soundproofed the curtain as well," Lupin said, a disapproving look on his face as he eyed the students. They had the decency to look guilty.

Neville stepped out a little later, slightly shaken, but with a small smile on his face.

"Next, Mr. Weasley!"

This cycle continued, with Hermione coming out with only a slight amount of smugness on her face from getting it on the first try, before it was finally Booker's turn.

"Mr. Potter, you're up!"

He stepped up and swept the curtain to the side, a wary expression on his face. He wasn't sure what his greatest fear would be, and watched with horror as it slowly took the shape of Elizabeth.

Guilt and fear coiled in his stomach. To be afraid of his own daughter... well, it made some sense, what with her powers, but still. Shameful, truly.

Regardless, he attempted to imagine her in a chicken suit and cast the spell. " _Riddikulus!_ "

Nothing changed, and Elizabeth raised a brow at him, mocking him.

"It's time to die," she said, and Booker felt deep fear, knowing she would stop at nothing to kill him.

He tried again. " _R-riddikulus!_ " he shouted, pointing his wand at her with vigor.

Again, nothing. His instincts were screaming at him to run, but he wouldn't just leave. He felt electricity spark along his fingertips. Could he kill her before she killed him? Maybe. Just maybe.

"Mr. Potter?"

Lupin startled him and he switched targets in a terror. The man flinched at the sudden change, but stepped behind the curtain to talk to him.

"Mr. Potter, it's me, Professor Lupin. Would you rather if you didn't finish this exercise? You seem to be having some serious issues."

"Y-yeah," he said, not entirely registering what was going on around him, because suddenly Elizabeth was on him, hands around his neck, pushing past the curtain and knocking him to the ground. She straddled him as she choked him, and he struggled. By god, did he struggle. He kicked her in the back, managing to stun her a little bit. He flipped them over, pulling at her arm until he heard a sickening crack of dislocation.

Then it was no longer Elizabeth. It was young Sally, her arm dislocated, screaming and crying in pain.

"Sally, I-"

"Step aside, Mr. Potter," Lupin said, and he went in front of the boggart, which turned into the full moon.

" _Riddikulus!_ " Lupin turned the moon into a balloon, and quickly sent it back behind the curtain and into the cupboard.

Booker fell to his knees, adrenaline pumping in his ears, barely noticing as Lupin helped him up and out of the classroom.

* * *

He woke up, again, in the Hospital Wing.

"Harry," Hermione said off to the side, and he looked over to see her tear-streaked face.

"Hey, 'Mione," he replied weakly.

"I have a lot of questions right now," she told him, wiping away another tear, "but right now you need to rest. Madam Pomfrey, he's awake."

The mediwitch walked over with a grim look.

"Mr. Potter, we meet again."

"Indeed." He remembered her from his last visit. Strict, yet kind. Definitely an experienced medic.

"I understand it was rather traumatic to see your worst fear up close. Honestly, I think this lesson would have been better reserved for the elder students. I'll have to discuss this with Lupin later. For now, Mr. Potter, take a Dreamless Sleep potion, and try to rest."

"Alright," Booker said softly. He took the potion and downed it quickly, managing to hand the bottle to Hermione before he was out like a light.

* * *

When he woke again, he was delighted to see Hermione, until he noticed she was frowning.

"What's wrong?"

"Why are you afraid of my grandmother?"

Oh. Crap.

Booker sighed. "This is a long story that I would rather happen in private, Hermione. I promise, I will tell you everything, but you have to wait until I'm out of the Hospital Wing."

Hermione's brow furrowed, but she nodded her assent.

Then, Madam Pomfrey walked over. "Mr. Potter, I'm glad to see you awake. Professor Lupin is here to see you," she announced, and the ragged man stepped up.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," he said, a sad look on his face. "I am truly sorry for exposing you to such a traumatic experience. I wasn't expecting... that. In all honesty I expected He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to appear, and while I'm glad he didn't, I should have thought the experience through much more."

Booker nodded. "Well, apology accepted. I can only hope your next lesson is less... terrifying for the students."

* * *

Booker was released a few hours later, and after a small lunch, he and Hermione headed down to the lake and took shelter from the biting autumn winds under a tree. It was the weekend, so there were no classes. Neville, understanding they needed some time to themselves, went to watch Gryffindor's Quidditch practice.

"So. Start from the beginning," Hermione said. "I want to know everything."

With a deep breath, he began the story of Booker DeWitt. The story of a boy, with a Native American mother and an absentee white father, living in New York City, with his mother whoring herself out for money to support him while he worked at the local paper and taught himself to read. How he had no schooling of any sort, barely able to do math until he forced himself to learn for accounting at the paper. When his mother died, he joined the army at a scant 16, and was sent to Wounded Knee, where he killed so many of his mother's race, he couldn't stop the guilt that flooded through him.

Baptism was the only way to go, but even then, a dip in the water was nothing to wash away his sins, and he wallowed in guilt. He got a job as a Pinkerton, worked hard to support his new love, Annabelle Watson, who died to give him a child. And what did he do with the child? Sold it, to pay for his gambling debts. Immediate regret filled him to the brim and he raced after them, only managing to get his daughter's pinky as she was whisked away to another dimension.

Twenty years he spent, working tirelessly to support a child that he wished would come back. Then, he was given a job, to retrieve a girl. The rest, of course, you already know. And when he was drowned in that river, something pulled him from the grips of death and into new life as a boy named Harry Potter, memory intact of his past life for some odd reason that only God could know.

Hermione was astounded, Booker could tell. "This whole time... you were great grandpa Booker."

He smiled. Of course Eliz... Anna would call him that. "Yep. That's me."

"No wonder you look so familiar! You look just like you do in the pictures, only, considerably younger, of course."

"Of course. I trust you'll keep a secret?"

"Harry, Booker, whatever name you may choose, you can always trust me to keep this a secret."

Booker knew he could, and smiled even wider before pulling her into a hug.

* * *

 **AN:** **i know in the books that the ministry pushed for the dementors to be on the train, but to do so they would need the permission of dumbledore. the ministry is just pushing the blame onto him rather than taking it for themselves.**

 **in case you couldnt tell, i took some liberties with booker's childhood and past. thats not canon, what i wrote. just a headcanon.**

 **also, i didnt wanna take up space at the beginning with this, so here it is. i am so sorry this took so long to update. i got caught in one spot and just couldnt find the will to continue writing, but i refuse to leave this fic unfinished. i want so desperately to finish this fic. no matter how many chapters and years and lore changes. i will finish it.**


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